


Gardens of Eden

by VVSIGNOFTHECROSS



Series: Lupus Et Draco [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-04
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-07-12 06:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 45
Words: 68,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7088992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS/pseuds/VVSIGNOFTHECROSS
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to Wolves and Change. Jonothor's coronation approaches, but the darkness grows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

****

**1 st Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Jon Arryn**

It had been four years since he had accepted the Lord Regent’s offer to become Hand of the King. Four years in which much and more had changed. The Lord Regent was a clever man, that much Jon had known before, he knew how to manoeuvre people, knew how to get them to do what he wanted them to do. In a sense, that was why they had worked so well, the regent was smart man, but there were certain things he lacked, certain qualities that were missing from his repertoire, that Jon had, and so they worked together, worked to keep things going, to keep the peace as it were. Of course as Hand of the King, Jon had been able to gather some appointments and rewards for his own family, and those who were loyal to him, and as such it had been good to know that there were members of the Vale in high ranking positions at court and within the King’s household, all of that was reassuring to him, and gave him confidence. For he was getting old, and he was not sure how much longer he had left, he wanted to make sure that everything was in place for when Jasper became Lord of the Vale.

Jasper, his firstborn son, his heir, with auburn hair and Tully blue eyes, his son was everything a man could hope for in an heir. Smart, capable and martial, the boy reminded Jon of his brother Ronnel when Ronnel had been that age, thankfully, Jasper did not have the temper that Ronnel had had, and he seemed to be much more thoughtful. Jon hoped that his son would be able to face the difficulties that were going to come his way very soon, and he hoped that his friendship with the boy King would spare him any of the fall out that was to come very soon. He was sure it would, but regardless, he was determined to make sure that such a thing was ensured.

Regardless, such a thing would need to wait for the end of this council meeting. The Lord Regent had called for this meeting, to discuss the preparations for the King’s coronation, the King who was currently travelling through the crownlands, would be back before the moon ended, just in time for the coronation. Jon spoke first, as was his duty. “My lords, my lady,” he says acknowledging Lady Ellaria’s presence on the small council as mistress of whispers. “Very soon we shall be hosting many men and women, lords and ladies, and many others, as the King’s coronation takes place. I am sure we are all looking forward to it, and seeing that the King has grown into a fine young man, I think that we can be sure that the ceremony shall go off without a problem.” He stops then nodding to the Lord Regent.

As always, the Lord Regent takes the thread of the conversation from him. “Thank you my lord Hand. Yes, as Lord Arryn said, the coronation ceremony is fast approaching. An event that is long overdue, and one that shall I am sure be an event that our children and their children will be speaking about for years to come.” there is a hearty laugh at that, something that makes Jon slightly sick. The regent continues. “On that note, Lord Wyman, how are the books looking? Are we going to be within budget?”

Lord Wyman Manderly, Master of Coin, a fat man, but a clever one and part of the reason the regent has been able to maintain his hold over the kingdoms and the court for as long as he has, takes a moment and then speaks. “Yes my lord regent. It would appear that as of today, we are on track to remain within our means. So far one million dragons have been spent on ensuring that all the festivities for the people and the lords and ladies are done as requested. The inns and the manors have all been seen to as well, ensuring that they are inhabitable for the lords and ladies and their families. There does not seem to be any issue.”

Jon sees the Lord Regent nod satisfied, as he does that, Jon briefly wonders whether or not Ned will be coming south for his nephew’s coronation. He is not sure how to feel about that, he has not seen Ned since that trial by combat where Robert was slain all those years ago. It is a strange thought that, and one he tries desperately to push down. He focuses as the Lord Regent speaks once more. “Very good, the more fun the people have, the more this ceremony will be good for our city. Now, Lord Staunton, what word is there from the city watch? How are things looking with regards to the Faith and those poor fellows?”

Jon listens intently then, the poor fellows had emerged from somewhere quite recently, blabbing on about how the Seven were going to return for the end of the days, and how they would appear soon enough. That was something Jon had found hilarious, but he listened intently all the same, as Lord Staunton speaks. “Ser Jacelyn has told me that the City Watch are more than prepared for whatever trouble the Poor Fellows might try and bring about during the King’s coronation, my Lord Regent. As for other news, I have ensured that the City Watch is more than prepared for any unruliness that might come forth from the coronation ceremony.”

The Lord Regent nods. “Very good.”

Jon decides to speak then; to voice a concern he has harboured for some time. “My lords, my lady, there is one small issue that I have with everything.” He pauses, allowing for his fellow council members to look at him then. He takes a breath then continues. “The Tyrells have not yet responded to how many members of their family will be attending, and considering the trouble that there was between some of the Stormlords and some of their family recently, I am not sure whether they should be concerned or not.”

“Lord Renly has assured me that there will be no trouble from either side.” The Lord Regent says dismissively, causing Jon to feel some of the old anger toward the old man flare up once more.

Jon keeps silent though, for the Lord Regent seems determined to move things onward. “Lady Ellaria, what word do you have for us from across the sea?”

Lady Ellaria Sand, paramour of Prince Oberyn Martell, Mistress of Whispers, and a fierce woman in her own right, is silent for a moment before replying. “From what my sources have told me, the Red King is growing ever powerful. It seems as though his ploys from years past have worked, the slaves of Slaver’s Bay have finally revolted, and have recognised him as their King. It appears, that the man is now planning to move on some of the other cities.”

“Has he managed to bring all of Slaver’s Bay under his control?” Jon finds himself asking.

Lady Ellaria fixes him with a calculating gaze, before replying. “Almost all of it. There are segments that are resisting, but they are few in number. It helps, when he is able to bring fire to life and make the common man think that he is a God.”

Jon shifts slightly. “I am sure that someone in Essos will find a way to remove him from power. They cannot all be thinking that having someone such as him growing in power is a good thing.”

Lady Ellaria responds her voice calm. “It would seem that you are wrong my Lord Hand. Many of the Free Cities are happy to allow his power to spread, regardless of what it does to their economies. Mainly due to the fact that there are several members of the Red Faith influencing the rulers of those cities. The only city that seems impervious to his pull is Braavos, and even then that seems temporary.”

The Lord Regent perks up at that. “Braavos is against him? I would have thought they would be in favour of the man, considering they are against slavery.”

Lady Ellaria chuckles slightly. “The Red Faith, is just another form of slavery my Lord Regent. It simply removes one thing with another. A chain of bondage if you will, and one that might never be removed, unless with force.”

Allowing his curiosity to get the better, Jon finds himself asking. “Do you think then, that there might be a possibility that the man would look toward coming westward then?”

“Almost without a doubt. The man has no limit to his ambition from what my sources have been able to tell me, and as such I believe there is nothing he would like more than to conquer Westeros and finish what his predecessor started.” Lady Ellaria responds.

Silence falls over them for a brief moment as they all consider this, eventually, the silence is broken by the Lord Regent, as Jon had expected. “Lord Monford, I want you to keep the fleet prowling the waters, I want to be doubly sure that nothing gets passed us, and into the Kingdom. We cannot afford such a thing, not with the coronation coming so soon.”

Jon sees the master of ships nod his head. “Of course my Lord Regent, I shall make sure my best men are on duty during this time.”

A brief silence then. “Very well, unless there is anything more that needs to be discussed, this meeting is at an end.”

Jon stands alongside the others and watches as the Lord Regent walks out of the council chamber, accompanied by a member of the Kingsguard, once he has gone, Jon waits a moment and then walks out, making his way back to the Tower of the Hand. As he walks, he takes a moment to consider all that he has learned in this meeting today, the growing power of the Red King in Essos is deeply concerning, and some of the rumours he has heard about what Prince Viserys has been doing during his travels, are more than enough reason to breed some small amount of concern. He finds himself wondering if he might be able to use that after all is said and done, and perhaps get his chance at revenge. He opens the door to the Tower, and walks up the stairs that lead to the main rooms in the tower. As he walks, he hears his wife singing some sort of song to one of their children, Robert most likely, that boy is far too soft for his own good, but Jon does not have the heart to take him away from his mother. He still remembers the shouting they had done when he had sent Jasper off to the Vale a year ago. Still, if the boy comes back with sense in his head, it will only be a good thing.

He gets to his solar, and is relieved to see that Selwyn has already placed a cup of wine on the table for him. He will need this cup of wine when the time comes for speaking with Baelish, the man who has proven to be a valuable ally during his time here. He sits down at his table, reads through some of the correspondence that has come from the Vale, mainly reports of harvests and the profit being made from trade, things he has seen before, but are reassuring in these times. The first sign he gets of there being something not quite right, is when he has to blink twice to read one of the words on the letter from Runestone, he looks at it, and then he cannot see it properly, he looks at it again, and then his heart shudders. He shivers, cold all of a sudden, he tries to call out, but his voice is hoarse, that surprises him, and as he tries to move, he falls down, his head hits the table, and the world disappears.


	2. Faithful Man

**1 st Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**High Septon Maegor**

The bells tolled in the Great Sept of Baelor, in remembrance for Jon Arryn, the Lord of the Eyrie, Lord Paramount of the Vale and Hand of the King. Maegor’s cousin had been found in the solar of the Tower of the Hand, blood pooling forth from his mouth, poison in his drink, someone had clearly gone to a lot of effort to make sure the man was dead. Maegor had his suspicions about whom had done the deed, but he had decided to keep them to himself, he had learned a long time ago that it was not worth getting overtly involved with such things. No, it was better to concern himself with the dealings of the Faith. The past four years had been an interesting time for his people, there were developments, the members of the Faith seemed more willing to listen to the changes and reforms that he had been saying were necessary for some time. No longer were they demanding tithes from people to give services, instead they were accepting them for free, no longer were they demanding payment for the blessing of someone’s soul, they were doing it for free. Naturally, this was angering many people, but none had tried to come to blows as he had feared they might have.

The bells stop ringing, and Maegor takes a moment to pray for the soul of his cousin, a good man who fell far in one way or another. That done, he opens his eyes and walks into the room of the Father, there meetings of the Most Devout take place. The room is a spacious one, with a table made from oak, and seven chairs for the seven members of the Most Devout, Maegor looks at them all and thinks through what is on the agenda for today. He takes a breath and then speaks. “Thank you all for coming. It has been a tragic day, Lord Arryn was a good man and one who was taken before his time. Let us start this meeting with a prayer for him.” This is not something he wants to do, but it is expected of him and therefore he does it. “Dear Father upon high, please take great care with the man who is to join you today. His name is Jon of the House Arryn, a good man, and devoted to you, make sure his soul rests easy today and for the rest of time.”

“Amen.” The Most Devout respond.

Maegor opens his eyes and decides that with that done, the time has come to get to business. “Now, there are three main issues that need to be discussed. Foremost amongst them is the issue of the Poor Fellows, who continue to come within range of the Sept, begging for alms and preaching their heresy. Septon Maron, what have you gathered about them?”

Septon Maron is a relatively young man of thirty namedays, an ambitious man from the Westerlands, he has risen high, quite quickly within the Faith. His words are measured when he responds. “From what I have been able to understand Your Holiness, the Poor Fellows have come to King’s Landing now, for they believe that the King’s coronation will be the advent of the end of times. Their reasoning for this, is some scroll that was found within the annals of Oldtown that stated that the Seven would manifest themselves on the day that a false Dragon was crowned.”

Maegor looks at the man, not really believing what he is hearing, sometimes he is still surprised by just how foolish people can be. “And I suppose that they believe that the King is this false Dragon that is mentioned within the scrolls?”

Maron has the decency to show some level of embarrassment. “Yes Your Holiness. It seems that they do truly believe that His Majesty, the King is the one who is the false dragon. I am not sure why, but from what I have gathered, it has something to do with his heritage.”

Maegor sighs. “The fact that he has a lineage that goes back to the north does sit well with these fools then?”

“Indeed not Your Holiness.” The man responds. “It seems that they are convinced that because of the influence of the Lord Regent, the King will, following his coronation begin persecuting members of the Faith.”

“Something that is completely untrue. I am not sure how many times the Lord Regent, or the King will need to say that they will not do something before these fools believe it.” Maegor responds.

“If I may Your Holiness?” Septon Torbert asks.

“Go ahead.” Maegor responds.

“It is possible that these Poor Fellows, believe that the words the King has spoken before on this matter are not genuine. That the Lord Regent has forced him to speak these words, so that the man might maintain his hold on power. You have heard the rumours that came up after Lord Hoster’s death, and now Lord Arryn is gone. People are wondering.” Septon Torbert states.

“What are they wondering precisely?” Maegor asks, trying to keep his voice calm.

Torbert looks nervous then. “They are wondering whether or not the Lord Regent has had his competition killed off. Both Lord Tully and Lord Arryn were devout followers of the Faith, who had the power to challenge the Lord Regent, and both happened to die off in very suspicious circumstances. It is not much of a stretch for some to believe that the Lord Regent had them killed.”

Maegor considers this for a moment and then laughs. “And they would be wrong. There is no reason for The Lord Regent to have killed either man.” _Especially not Jon, no Jon laid his own bed of thorns a long time ago._ “I think that sometimes these people might mean well, but really they do themselves more harm than good.” He pauses then, to have a look around and see how the Most Devout react to this, their reactions are mixed. He clears his throat and then asks. “Have these Poor Fellows a leader?”

“They do Your Holiness.” Septon Maron says. “A man who calls himself simply the Sparrow.”

Maegor quirks an eyebrow at that, vague memories from his time at the Starry Sept coming back to him. “And what does this Sparrow want?”

“Your Holiness?” Maron asks confused.

“What does he want? He must want something, otherwise, he would not be here, making a fool of himself.” Maegor responds.

At this something akin to anger flashes across Maron’s face, before it disappears. “I believe he simply wants what the Poor Fellows want.”

“And what exactly is it that these Poor Fellows want?” Maegor asks. “As far as I know, no one has been able to tell me what it is they want.”

There is a brief moment of silence, then Maron responds. “I believe they want to prevent the King from being crowned, properly.”

Maegor sighs. “And why do they want that?”

“Because they believe that if the King is crowned, then there will be nothing to stop the carnage that will come from it.” Septon Maron responds.

Maegor looks at the man, Septon Maron is deeply ambitious, that Maegor knows, but there is something else in him, something about him that has always unnerves Maegor, and he thinks he might be seeing more of it now. “And what precisely do they think will cause this carnage Maron?” he asks lightly.

The man’s face is a hardened mask, but before he can respond, Septa Donella speaks. “They seem to think that if the King is crowned, that something of note will happen, that a hole will open in the sky, and that the Seven will emerge to strike down all those who have not opposed the crowning of the King.”

His suspicions raised, Maegor asks. “Do they plan on starting something then to prevent the King from being crowned?” He thinks he knows the answer, but he waits to see how the Most Devout respond before he comes to a conclusion.

“I believe so, yes.” Comes the answer from Donella.

“Then they must be stopped.” Maegor responds simply.

“Your Holiness?” comes the question from someone, who, he is not sure, but he thinks his suspicions were right.

“We swore an oath when we recognised the Targaryens as the rightful rulers of Westeros, that we would always aid them whenever we could, and in return they would protect us. From ourselves if need be. Now is one of those times. If they intend to stop the coronation of the rightful King, then they must be stopped.” Maegor responds, his voice filled with conviction.

“Even though there is no solid proof that they are going to be doing anything?” Septon Maron questions.

Maegor snorts. “You have told me that they are planning on disrupting the coronation. That in itself should be enough for us to get involved. They are Poor Fellows, representative of an element of the Faith. As High Septon, I am responsible for them, and I will not allow them to disrupt the coronation.”

He can sense the change in the room then, it was a subtle change before, but now it becomes quite clear. “I see.” Is all Septon Maron says. Maegor hears noise outside, sounds of men and women screaming, he wonders at that, but keeps his gaze fixed on Maron, wondering when the other shoe might drop.

“So then, we are decided.” Maegor says to break the silence. “The Poor Fellows and this Sparrow fellow must be punished, I would like the Sparrow to be brought in for questioning. As for the others if they will not see reason, then they shall have to die.” He does not like the words, but they must be said.

It is at that moment that the door to the room flies open, men dressed in boiled leather storming in. “What is the meaning of this?” Maegor demands, anger filling his voice.

“The righting of a wrong.” A voice says, Maegor looks around for the voice, and finds himself looking at Maron.

“What do you mean?” Maegor asks.

“You have disgraced your office Your Holiness, you have turned the Faith into nothing more than puppets for the Targaryens. The reforms you have brought have turned the Faith from its core principles. In short you have failed in your duty as High Septon. That is an offense that cannot be forgiven.” Maron says, Maegor sees the armoured men walk closer to him.

“And what of the rest of you?” Maegor asks, looking around at the room at large. “Do you agree with this?”

Silence follows his question, and just when he is about to ask it again, Septa Donella responds. “We do. You have fallen from the man you once were. Pride and ambition have clouded your judgement. We cannot allow that to continue.”

“So you would damn the Faith to war, and to destruction.” Maegor exclaims. “What has this Sparrow fellow promised you?”

“A return to the old ways. A venture into the promised land. A return to how things were when the Andals ruled Westeros, not the dragons.” Septon Torbert says.

Maegor laughs. “You are all fools if you think he will actually deliver on that promise. From the sounds of it, he is no better than me, or the me you think you see. You shall all fall before long.”

A voice he has not heard in a long time speaks then. “And that my friend is where you are wrong. The time has come for change, but not the change you were planning. True change. A fall of the old order, and a restoration of what it means to be a member of the Faith.”

Maegor looks at the man and laughs. “I knew it would be you, you are a fool.” The man before him stands in a simple brown rag of clothing, but his eyes glimmer with mischief and delight, as they always did.

A figure walks toward him, a sword in his hand. “For the Faith.” The man whispers, and Maegor feels the sword plunge into his stomach, he gasps, but says nothing.


	3. Denial Of The Empty Truth

**2 nd Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Rickard Stark**

The coronation was merely weeks away, the feeling that time was moving incredibly quickly was one that Rickard was becoming overtly familiar with. His grandson had grown into a fine young man, tall, muscular, handsome and smart, he would make a fine King, of that Rickard was sure. There were some finite details that needed to be sorted for the coronation, and with the King still out traversing through the crownlands with his cousins as well as other young lords, Rickard felt certain that they would have enough time to sort through everything that needed to be sorted out. Or at least he felt that that would be the case, had certain things not happened. Jon Arryn was dead, the man, who for some time been a rival and an ally at court was gone, poisoned, and as such, there was that minor matter to have to deal with. Rickard had with the King’s permission confirmed Jasper Arryn, Jon’s son as Lord of the Eyrie and Lord Paramount of the Vale as well as Warden of the East, but the matter of his death was still there. A nagging thing that seemed to refuse to go away. It was concerning.

Taking a breath, Rickard looks around the room and then says. “Maester Ebrose, what more can you tell the council about the matter of Jon Arryn’s death?”

Grand Maester Ebrose is an old man now, but a good one, someone who knows just what to say and how to say it. The man takes a deep breath and then responds. “Well, from what my initial tests have shown, it seems that there was something within the drink that Lord Arryn had drunk from. Some form of poison I believe. It was quite a fast actor as well, for it left him in the state he was found in, in a matter of moments.”

Rickard nods, the maester’s words confirming the thoughts he has had since learning of the man’s death. “What sort of poison might do something such as that?” he asks.

Ebrose ponders the question for a moment before responding. “I believe Tears of Lys is one such poison, though that one seems to take some more time to really work, and as such, does not match what I have seen of Lord Arryn’s body. No, I think for this one we might be looking at something from the far east.”

That perks his interest. “The far east? What do you mean?”

Ebrose takes a deep breath. “The poison that was within Lord Arryn’s system, was one that I have only seen once before. During my time at the citadel there was a poison that was found in a ship from Asshai, it was dark in colour and sweet in smell and it tore away at a person’s throat and inner defences, leaving them spooling out spit and blood at the same time. Similar to what happened to Lord Arryn. I think that that poison is the one that was used.”

“Does this poison have a name?” Rickard asks.

The maester shakes his head. “Not as far as I am aware.”

A pause, then Rickard asks. “Where might such a thing have come from? I do not think that the Red King would dare do something like this, he does not have the time to do so. Nor do I think he has the inclination.”

Lady Ellaria speaks then. “I think we might need to look closer to home for this my Lords. I think that there might be someone within the Vale who might have wanted Lord Arryn dead, and would not have hesitated to have gone the full circle to get it done.”

Rickard considers the Mistress of Whispers words and says. “Do you think then, that someone from Gulltown might be behind this?”

The lady looks at him with a piercing gaze and nods. “I do my Lord Regent. I think only someone in Gulltown could truly have the means or the motive to get access to something such as this poison, for they are the ones who are known to be trading with the far east with little to no concern.”

Rickard considers this and then asks. “What is the name of the man who worked for Lord Arryn? That coin collector from Gulltown?”

“Petyr Baelish, my Lord Regent.” Lord Wyman supplies helpfully.

Rickard nods his thanks. “Ah yes, Baelish. Lady Ellaria, I want you to have a word with him at some point, see what he might know about this.”

“Of course my Lord Regent.” The Mistress of Whispers responds.

Rickard takes a breath then pushes onto the next matter of concern. “Now, what word has there been from Baelor’s Sept. I do not for one moment believe that the High Septon simply disappeared, so tell me Lady Ellaria what more is there to this?”

Word of the High Septon’s disappearance, if it could be called that had come from the Sept, and had come from Septon Maron, a man Rickard did not trust one little bit, and for good reason as well. Lady Ellaria speaks then interrupting his thoughts. “From what my sources inside the Sept tell me, there was a meeting of the Most Devout on the day that the High Septon went missing. It seems the High Septon called the meeting to discuss the appearance of the Poor Fellows and how the Faith would deal with them. As well as to discuss some of the reforms that he wanted to institute. My sources tell me that the Most Devout were not happy with this, nor were they happy with the agenda they believed the High Septon to be pursuing.”

“What do you mean by that?” Rickard asks curious.

“It seems that elements of the Most Devout were of the belief that the High Septon was making the Faith a puppet of the crown and that their authority was being impeded. It seems they wanted to take more power back into their hands, and they were willing to do it by any means necessary.” The Mistress of Whispers responds.

“Are you suggesting that the Most Devout had a hand in the disappearance of the High Septon?” Lord Staunton asks shocked.

“No, I am suggesting, or rather stating that they had a hand in his death.” Lady Ellaria replies calmly. “I do not think for one moment that the High Septon disappeared, I believe the Most Devout had him killed.”

A stunned silence falls over the council chamber then, as the members of the council look at Lady Ellaria as if trying to assess whether or not she is being serious, and then at one another. Eventually, Rickard speaks. “And, who do you think helped them in this plot my lady? After all, I am sure we can all agree that the Most Devout would not just kill the High Septon unless they had the backing of someone.”

There are murmurs of agreement at that, and then Lady Ellaria speaks. “I believe that the Poor Fellows who have been arriving and staying near the Sept are responsible for that. They are led by a man known only as the Sparrow, and he seems to be quite willing to do whatever it takes to achieve his goals.”

“And what precisely are those goals, and why is it that we are just hearing about this just now?” Rickard asks, fighting hard to keep his anger from showing.

Lady Ellaria looks slightly embarrassed at that, as she rightly should. Her voice is soft when she responds. “I had spent some time looking into them, and had spoken with the High Septon, he had promised he would gather more information about them. But yes, it seems that the Sparrow wants to remove northern influence from the crown’s presence. It seems he believes that the northern influence around the crown has turned it from its purpose and its promise to protect the faith. He also it seems is convinced that the coronation if it happens in its current form will herald the end of days.”

Rickard looks at the Mistress of Whispers, wondering if she is jesting or not, when he sees that she clearly is not, he sighs and asks. “And why precisely does this man believe that? And I take it then that those Poor Fellows are all his supporters?”

“Indeed they are. As for why he believes this, I think there might be something deeply wrong with him. I think he has fallen far from the right path, and is now preaching something to remove the Northern influence from court, simply because he believes there is something more out there.” Lady Ellaria responds.

“Do you happen to know where this fool is from?” Rickard asks.

Lady Ellaria shakes her head. “I do not have a solid lead to where the man might be from my Lord Regent. So far, I have heard various reports that he is from the riverlands, or that he is from the Stormlands, or perhaps even from the Reach. There is nothing solid on him, or what he did before this.”

“Keep looking,” Rickard responds. “Anyone like that will have some dirt on their person.” Lady Ellaria nods, and Rickard turns his attention to Lord Staunton. “Tell me my lord, with all of this trouble going on near the sept, how will this affect the coronation, in terms of order?”

Lord Staunton is an old man now, well not nearly as old as Rickard is himself, but he is getting there. “I think things shall be fine, my Lord Regent. I have spoken to the men of the City Watch and they have told me that the people are not overtly concerned by the Poor Fellows. Nor do they seem to approve of their methods.”

Rickard nods. “And will that remain the case, if this Sparrow fellow grows more popular? How many members do the Poor Fellows have?”

“At last count there were no more than eighty, my Lord Regent. Not enough to cause more than a little trouble should things get troublesome, though the City Watch report that such a thing will not happen. Things will remain in good order.” Lord Staunton responds.

“Very well, I want you to make sure that it remains that way. We cannot afford any disturbances during the coronation or afterwards. And should the Poor Fellows look as if they might cause trouble, I want them destroyed.” Rickard states, Lord Staunton nods his acceptance. Rickard turns his attention back to Lady Ellaria and asks. “When do you think the Most Devout will choose a new High Septon and when will they admit to their wrong doing?”

Lady Ellaria laughs softly at that. “I do not think they will ever admit to what they have done my Lord Regent; the Most Devout are not known for their honesty when it comes to their own inner workings. However, I do think that the pressure they now face, will see them name a new High Septon within the next fortnight, if not sooner.”

That surprises Rickard. “So soon? Whilst that would be most fortunate, I would have thought they would’ve taken more time to consider a candidate, considering how they seemed to have felt about Septon Maegor.”

Lady Ellaria smiles sadly then. “I think they are looking to get someone in power who appeals to their sense of importance, and someone who will try and restore the Faith, to what they consider its rightful place.”

Rickard nods, then asks. “And how is our preferred candidate looking?” Whilst he had trusted Septon Maegor, they had both known that the man might not have lived for much longer and therefore they had been preparing for the man’s death.

“Septon Dorren looks as if he might get some of the votes early on, but it seems as though Septon Maron might be the one to win the nomination in the end.” Lady Ellaria responds.

Rickard considers this for a moment before responding. “Very well, see to it that those within the Most Devout who owe their election to us, that they are reminded of that fact, as well as the fact that Maron is from the Westerlands, and was until his death, someone’s puppet.”

There is a positively mischievous smile on Lady Ellaria’s face then. “It would be my pleasure.”


	4. Coronation

****

**2 nd Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

The day he had waited most of his life for was finally here. His coronation day, oh he’d be crowned King as a babe, he knew that, but now, now he was going to be crowned King properly, and get the chance to exercise his own right to power. The crown he had chosen as a boy was to be placed on his head, the crown of King Maekar, the man he had looked up to as his hero, he hoped that he would be worthy of the crown. His whole life he had been raised to be King, and now that that was finally going to happen he felt a flurry of emotions run through him, happiness, nervousness, and most of all a sense of determination, a sense to do his grandfather proud. This was it, this was the moment he had waited his whole life for, and he was determined to make the most of it.  He felt the flurry of excitement, the promise of what was to come, and he knew, deep down that it was going to be an event to remember.

Jonothor looked around him as he mounted his horse, the Seven Kingsguard were accompanying him, their cloaks white, their armour pristine and shining in the sunlight. His friends were also mounting their horses, Robb, his brother in all but name, Harwyn, the friend he had never thought to make, Arthur, the boy who was like a little brother to him, and then there was his uncle Viserys, who had returned from his travels, bringing with him many a tale. They were all dressed in their finest clothes, and looked a pretty sight, he had to admit. Then there were his grandparents, Lord and Lady Stark, who both looked absolutely magnificent in the grey and white of their house. Then there were the ladies, Daenerys was the leading Princess, looked a beautiful sight, but not more beautiful than Margaery, his betrothed who looked as if the sun itself would be jealous of her. He felt something stir inside of him as he looked at her, and winked when she looked at him, smiling at the blush that crept across her cheeks.

Once atop his horse, Jonothor took a quick look around, and then once he was happy that everyone was ready, he dug his spurs into his horse and began the journey to the Great Sept of Baelor. The gates of the Red Keep opened and they rode down Aegon’s High Hill, all the while Jonothor kept his eyes peeled to the place in front of him, his grandfather had warned him about the potential dangers of the Poor Fellows and the death of the High Septon-that the faith had chosen someone so quickly was either a good thing, or a bad thing- and so he kept his attention fixed before him, determined not to be caught unawares. The Kingsguard, were also there, keeping an eye out for things, Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, the Lord Commander of his Kingsguard, kept his attention fixed on the surroundings as did Ser Arthur and Ser Oswell, the rest of the guard were behind him keeping an eye on anything that might have been missed beforehand.

They come off the hill and arrive onto the streets of King’s Landing, there are a lot of people on the roads, looking at him and his party. He loves King’s Landing, it has always been his home, it always will, he knows that it smells slightly, but the smell just reminds him of home. Onward they ride, the people watching, some in stunned awe, others talking and cheering as they move through the streets. So far there does not seem to be any sign of danger appearing, he keeps his eyes focused ahead of him, aware of the conversations being had around him, but not really wanting to take part in any of them, determined to soak in everything that happens around him. He has waited for so long for this moment, ever since he was old enough to understand the title he had been given, he wanted this to happen, and so onward they ride.

More and more people are coming out to see him, Jonothor knows that they are there for him, that he is the main attraction of this procession, and that fills him with a sense of pride, and causes him to puff his chest out a bit more, to show them all that yes, he is the King, he is their King. Onward, they ride, through the streets, which look cleaner than they might otherwise do, something he is sure his grandfather insisted had to happen. Onward they go, through the streets, passing through hordes of people, more and more of them standing and staring and cheering, that they cheer for him makes him feel somewhat at ease, there had been a coil of tension within him as they had moved closer and closer to the day of his coronation, something he had not really been able to explain. Now that the day has come, he finds himself feeling more relaxed, he knows what will happen and how to make it happen.

As they come to Visenya’s Hill and the location of the Great Sept of Baelor, Jonothor feels something akin to awe come over him, at the sight of the sept before him. A large towering structure of white and silver, it glows in the sun, a reminder of the Targaryen promise to protect the faith, and a demonstration of just how powerful the family has been and will always be. He stops his horse at the entrance to the sept and dismounts, the Kingsguard and the rest of his guests doing the same. He walks forward, the Kingsguard shadowing him, and he stops before the man wearing plain white robes, the new High Septon. “Your Holiness.” He says.

The man bows his head. “Your Grace. Come, let us begin.” With that the man walks into the Sept, and Jonothor follows, his heart thumping in his chest.

Jonothor walks behind the High Septon, feeling some slight irritation at having to do so, but knowing it is only for this moment, and soon enough they arrive at the throne in the middle of the Great Sept, the throne where every King since Baelor the First had been crowned King. He sits down on the throne, looking around him as his Kingsguard take position in front of the throne, and the rest of the procession stand in the aisles. The High Septon speaks. “We are here for a most momentous occasion. The crowning of our King, His Majesty, King Jonothor Targaryen.” The man pauses and turns to look at him. “King Jonothor, are you ready to say your oaths?”

Jonothor nods, he has not been so ready for anything else in his life. “I am.” He responds.

“Then say your oaths Your Grace.” The High Septon says, a strange lilt to his voice.

Jonothor swallows, looks around, sees the smiles on his grandparents faces and speaks with confidence. “I, Jonothor, of the House Targaryen, son of Prince Rhaegar Targaryen and Princess Lyanna, do hereby swear before the Gods, Old and New, that I shall take on my duties with confidence, with clarity, and will always do my best to uphold the laws of the Kingdoms to which I rule. I shall always try to rule fairly and justly, and will put the interests of The Kingdoms before my own. I am the Sword that Guards the Realm of Men, I am the Shield that Defends the Realm of Men, and I am the Man who shall lead Westeros into a new age of peace and prosperity. This I swear Before the Old Gods and the New.”

There is a hushed silence as the words sink in, as everyone hears the new oath he has sworn, a change to the oaths of old. Then the High Septon speaks. Looking to the gathered crowd. “We have heard the oaths of the King. Let us now welcome him into the pantheon of the Kings.” The man takes Maekar’s crown from a follower, and Jonothor watches him move with the crown, his heart hammering in his chest, and then the crown is placed atop his head. The High Septon’s words echo around the room. “The King is crowned. Long Live the King!”

“Long Live the King!” comes the answering roar from those gathered below.

The High Septon stands back, and Jonothor stands up, feeling the weight of the crown atop his head, it is a nice weight, a nice feeling to it. He looks at the gathered lords and ladies below, nods to them, and then walks to the entrance of the Sept, the Kingsguard following him. He walks out and stands on the steps, soaking in the roar of the crowd gathered to watch him, soaking up the adulation that is all for him. He smiles, as he looks into the crowd and sees the people looking at him with love and adulation. He stands there, looking at everyone and everything, soaking it all up, knowing that this is something he will always remember. His Kingsguard stand guard over him now, and his grandfather and grandmother come to his side. He looks at them both and smiles. “You look very handsome Your Grace.” His grandmother says.

“Thank you, grandmother.” Jonothor replies, unable to keep the wide grin that settles on his face.

“You did very well in there, Your Grace.” His grandfather says, and that fills Jonothor with pride.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Jonothor responds, and they fall into a comfortable silence then, merely standing there watching the people, waving to them and occasionally speaking to one another, about various things, there will be a feast now, and Jonothor wonders if he might get to have Margaery alone to himself.

Eventually, their horses are brought to them, and Jonothor and his procession mount up and begin the journey back to the Red Keep. The people roar out their approval, their pleading for blessings, something that Jonothor finds quite interesting, and flattering if he is being honest with himself. They are just about coming to Aegon’s High Hill, when a man appears standing before Jonothor’s horse. “You have sealed our doom false King. The Seven have come to wreak their judgement on you!” the man screams.

“Get out of the way.” Ser Gerold bellows.

“You have done nothing but corrupt us all, you shall fall.” The man screams, clearly demented.

“Get out of the way, or be moved out of the way.” Ser Gerold bellows in response.

Another man appears. “You shall not move us, come and kill us, false King.”

Jonothor looks at Ser Gerold, and then at his grandfather who is at his side. His grandfather merely nods, and so Jonothor takes a deep breath and rides onward, his sword nearly drawn when the two men move out of the way at the last moment, their actions, causing the crowd to grow restless, there are shouts of this and that, there are other words exchanged, and before he knows it, Jonothor and his party are riding hard back to the Red Keep. As they get to the top of the hill, Jonothor turns to his grandfather and asks. “What happened there? Who were those people?”

His grandfather sighs. “Poor Fellows, no doubt wanting to cause trouble.”

Jonothor looks at his grandfather, and then at everyone coming into the Red Keep, he sees Daenerys, he sees Viserys, Margaery, Robb, all those he cares about are, there but then someone rides in covered in blood and looking worse for wear, a man named Gunthor he thinks. “What is happening out there?” he asks.

“The Poor Fellows are coming here, and they’ve brought knights with them.” the man responds.

“What?! Why?” Jonothor exclaims.

“The end of days.” The man responds before he slumps to the ground.


	5. Storming Of The Poor Fellows

**2 nd Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Rickard Stark**

Rickard sees the King look at him and then at everyone coming into the Red Keep, Princess Daenerys, Prince Viserys, Lady Margaery, and Rickard’s other grandson Robb, they are all there, and Rickard sees his grandson the King breathe a sigh of relief something he mimics. But then someone rides in covered in blood and looking worse for wear, a man named Gunthor he thinks. “What is happening out there?” The King asks

“The Poor Fellows are coming here, and they’ve brought knights with them.” the man responds.

“What?! Why?” King Jonothor exclaims.

“The end of days.” The man responds before he slumps to the ground.

Rickard sees the man fall to the ground, his horse broken and beaten and he calls out. “Get this man to Grand Maester Ebrose.” He sees two members of the City Watch hurry to get that done, and then he turns to the members of the court. “Everyone else, get inside. Those who can fight remain here, women and children inside.” He sees Lady Margaery and Princess Daenerys lead the way as a score of the old, women and children run into the Red Keep. His grandsons remain as do many other men.

The King, newly crowned with the iron spiked crown of King Maekar atop his head looks at him and asks. “What do you think we should do my lord?”

Rickard thinks for a moment, assessing the pathways and the walls of the Red Keep, the walls are thick and the defences are solid, but the Poor Fellows have knights with them, how that has happened he knows not, and yet they need to prepare for an assault. He looks to his grandson, the King, and says. “We must have archers on the walls, prepared to take them down the moment the poor fellows appear.”

His grandson, the King looks slightly ill at the thought. “Do you not think we could speak with them?”

Before Rickard can respond, Prince Viserys speaks. “Speak with fanatics? You would get more luck speaking to a sheep Your Grace. No Lord Stark is right; we need to deal with them in the appropriate manner.”

The King seems to consider this, he seems to be wavering between that course of action and another, but Rickard allows him to consider his options, before he eventually replies. “Very well then. Ser Alliser.” The Commander of the Gold Cloaks advances forward dressed in his armour. “Get archers onto the walls of the keep, I want them alert and prepared. I shall need to get my armour.”

The King looks at him then as if asking for approval, but now that the King is officially ruling in his own right they cannot dissuade him. He merely nods and says. “Robb go with His Grace. Ser Arthur and Ser Gerold will go with you as well.” The King and his grandson nod, and they disappear back into the keep to get their armour, whilst Prince Viserys remains. Rickard looks at the Prince questioningly and the man laughs softly.

“I do not think we shall be storming out of the keep. But if we do, I know how to fight in light armour.” The Prince touches his arms and his shoulders, and it is then that Rickard sees the glint of steel on the prince’s person and he nods. Seeing that acknowledgement, the Prince asks. “So how will we approach this my Lord? The Poor Fellows are beggars, but if they have knights with them, they will no doubt have a plan for scaling the walls.”

Before Rickard can respond, a shout goes up from outside. “Death to the False King! Death to the heretics, bring judgement!”

Rickard sighs. “It appears they are already here. Or at least a part of their strength is. Ser Alliser, what word from the walls?”

A moment of pause passes through them as they wait for the commander to get word from the men who had just run up the stairs, eventually, the reply comes. “Three hundred Poor Fellows wielding nothing more than scythes and other rudimentary weapons my lord.”

“No knights?” Rickard asks, needing to get complete confirmation before he decides the next course of action.

“No Knights my lord, merely peasants.” Thorne confirms.

Rickard thinks through this piece of information and then he says. “Very well, unleash fire now.” He sees Ser Alliser nod and then he hears the thrum of arrows and the answering scream as peasants are shot and killed. The fact that it has come to this is not something he is proud of, but if this Sparrow fellow is not going to listen to reason perhaps he will listen to force. The arrows whir and Rickard thinks through everything that he knows, he had decided that morning to wear a light form of armour, boiled leather, it might not have been appropriate for the Great Sept, but frankly having to have the coronation in the Great Sept had been as far as he was willing to go to accommodate the Faith. Since the new High Septon had been chosen the faith had made a litany of demands that if he were being honest should have had them killed. Regardless, they had an issue on their hands that needed to be dealt with appropriately.

As he hears the thrum of arrow fire and the screams of the dying outside, the King returns with two of the Kingsguard as well as Robb, and Rickard nods to them. The King stops before him and asks. “What is the position my lord?”

Rickard takes a moment to note the silver armour the King wears and then he replies. “Three hundred were massed outside, they are being dealt with currently. There might be more coming though, Your Grace. So I would advise caution.”

The King seems to consider this for a moment before nodding his head. “Very well then. What more can we do now? We do not need so many milling around the court yard it would merely bring unnecessary concern.”

Rickard hums in agreement. “Perhaps sending them to other parts of the Keep might do the trick Your Grace. After all, there might be other ways for the traitors to creep in.”

The King seems to understand what he is applying for he quickly barks out. “Lord Staunton, I want you to go with your men to the southern walls, look there for signs of trouble.” The Lord of Rook’s Rest nods and hurries off with some men and Rickard watches go, decidedly more relieved.

As they all stand there watching the arrows being fired out from upon high, Rickard can tell that there is a strand of nervousness running through the members of the court still gathered. Something like this hasn’t happened since the reign of King Aegon the Unlikely, and even then it ended reasonably well. Still arrows fire and they stand there watching the archers knock their bows and fire again and again, until something strange happens, one of the archers gets knocked down, and from where the man is standing that should not be happening. Another archer is knocked down and then another. It is at that point that Rickard realises what is happening. “They’ve got those damned stretchers.” He murmurs.

“What?” his King asks.

Rickard looks at the King and then says. “We need to get rid of them now. We need to push them down the hill Your Grace.”

The King looks surprised at that. “Why? I thought they would be more of a threat if we opened the gates?”

He knows he should probably explain more about this plan, but as another archer falls to the ground, he knows he does not have enough time. He merely says. “The more time we spend standing here watching, the less time we shall have to get rid of them properly. Force them down the hill with mounted men and they will scatter, like the locusts they are.”

His King considers this for a moment and then nods. “Very well then.” The King pauses, turns around and then barks out. “Bring out the horses.”

Rickard feels his heart hammer slightly, if the Poor Fellows have what he thinks they have then they might well be finished, but that is something he cannot allow to happen. He made a pact, and he does not think the other recipient would break that promise, not now. And so he mounts his horse, checks his back to make sure Ice is there, and then spurs his horse on, the King in the lead, the Kingsguard at his side. The gates of the Red Keep open and there before them are beggars and men with pitchforks and women and children all of them looking unwell. They begin shouting things when they see the King advancing towards him, trying to draw him down, but the King cuts them down. More of them begin pressing in, and Rickard begins swatting them away with his sword, cutting, and slicing, doing what he can to bring them away from the throne. More and more of them are coming though, appearing from somewhere out of the blue, he does not know where precisely these Poor Fellows are coming from, but they continue to advance, and it is beginning to frustrate him.

Arrows continue to fire out from above though their precision is a lot less than before, still, the Poor Fellows are falling and they are winning. The hill is slowly descending downwards, and as they continue to move forward, more of the Poor Fellows are turning out to be innocents, something that horrifies him, perhaps the man was more ruthless than he had first thought. Whoever this Sparrow fellow was, he knew exactly what he was doing. More and more of the enemy were disappearing now into the ground, dead and broken, but there were those who were falling off of the hill, plummeting to their deaths, their screams would haunt Rickard for a long time to come. Eventually, it becomes apparent that the Poor Fellows are giving up. When the King calls for them to halt, they halt, and then they turn back and ride back into the Red Keep. Rickard is left shaken though by the sight of women and children being amongst the crush, and the deafness of it all. He sighs, and then feels something wet running down his cheek, he presses a hand to it and is surprised when he sees blood on his hand. He presses another hand to his cheek and feels more blood coming down off of his cheek. He looks around and then dismounts once he realises they are back in the Red Keep. He sways slightly, and then the world goes black.

When he comes to, he is lying on a bed, his bed, deep inside Maegor’s Holdfast, and the room is dark, but sitting at his side is Lyarra his love. He clears his throat and she looks up at him, her eyes hooded from a lack of sleep. “What happened?” he asks.

He tries to sit up and winces at the pain that shoots through him, Lyarra presses a hand to his chest and says softly. “You were badly injured during the fighting. It seems the Poor Fellows did more damage than we first thought.”

At his wife’s words he sits up and winces, but asks. “What of the King and Robb? Are they alright?”

With her hands still on his chest, his wife replies. “Yes, they are fine my love. They came to see you earlier, but you need to rest now.”

He sinks back down onto the bed and then asks. “Are you alright?”

His wife smiles, and guessing what he wants from her moves into the bed with him and relies. “I am fine my love; I am better now that you are awake.” He presses a kiss to her hair and swears he will deal with the Sparrow and he will ensure the man suffers for what suffering he caused.

 


	6. Secrets

**3 rd Month of 298 A.C. Port **

**Leopold**

The journey to this place had been long and tiresome, he had had to cross through several different towns and rivers, and at one point he had thought he was being followed. But eventually he had triumphed, just as he knew he would. Leopold was good at his job, he had been doing this for a very long time, long before the War of the Usurper, long before the Blackfyres had died out he had been doing his job, and he knew how to play. Still, there were some things that he was not comfortable with, there were other things that he had to ignore sometimes, and those were the times when he reminded himself of the oath he swore. He knew what needed to be done, it was just a case of ensuring that it was done properly and without hesitation. That was the key, the moment someone hesitated, they were finished, and would not last beyond the requisite time. All of these thoughts were of course secondary, for as he looked into the crowd, he saw a figure emerge, a hooded figure dressed in grey to make them look plain, though Leopold knew them, would know them anywhere. The figure looked at him and gestured, and so Leopold follows.

He walks through alleyway after alleyway before eventually coming to his final destination, he opens the door and steps inside where the figure sits, still with their hood up. A moment passes, then the figure speaks. “You have done well Leopold. I did not think you would be able to get everything ready and prepared in time.”

Leopold smiles. “I have been doing this for a very long time. I have not forgotten the lessons I was taught.”

The hooded figure nods and then continues. “So tell me, what specific effects is the death of our falcon friend having in Westeros?”

Leopold considers the question for a moment, thinking through everything he has seen and observed and then he responds. “Rickard Stark has taken on the handship, a role that his grandson has confirmed him in. This has increased fears at court and elsewhere in the realm that the Starks and the Tyrells will only increase their hold over the court and the throne. Stark might have held the realm together, but his methods have brought about enemies.”

The hooded figure nods thoughtfully in response to this. “Ah yes, well it is as we expected. Tell me, who does Stark suspect was involved in the murder of Arryn?”

“Well he keeps himself out of those sort of thoughts,” Leopold says _rightly so, the man is not as clean as he would try to have us believe._ “Though I think he suspects Petyr Baelish and other disingenuous elements within the Vale. I think he also suspects that Arryn might have a hand in his own demise, largely due to the fact that he knew, he always knew Arryn was not completely loyal. Not like the man’s son.”

“He does not suspect your involvement in those affairs?” the hooded figure asks.

Leopold shakes his head, slightly offended at that. “No of course not. I am not so foolish as to leave a trace behind. No, they will never know who killed Jon Arryn for good. They will come up with some name or the other and will not be the true name.”

The Hooded figure hums in acceptance. “Very good. Now tell me, Septon Maegor, his death would have sent reverberations around the realm. Tell me, what do our allies in the Faith wish to do next?”

At this, Leopold hesitates for a moment and then he speaks. “They have moved forward, and have chosen a new High Septon, a man who is neither here nor there. Stark thinks the man is controlled by both himself and the Faith, but in reality the man is ours and always has been. And following the boy’s coronation, the Poor Fellows led an attack on the Red Keep.”

At this the hooded figure whistles. “That was not supposed to happen for a while yet. You said you had the sparrow under control.”

Leopold grimaces. “Forgive me. But I did not think he would go through with it. You know how unpredictable he can be.”

The Hooded figure nods and then says. “Next time he looks as if he might be going against the plan, remind him of what we know, and who we have. We cannot afford another mess. The Faith must remain divided for now, for if it is divided the realm will soon follow.”

Leopold nods, seeing the sense in what the figure is saying. He hesitates for a moment and then asks. “When will the next step of the plan be implemented? I know there are those at court who wish for it to happen before the boy marries the Tyrell girl. For they have conflicting interests on this matter.”

The Hooded Figure snorts. “That is one way of saying the Hightowers are trying to play both sides, once again. They will never openly commit until something is known for sure.” The figure sighs and then says. “Very well, since things are going rather well, implement part two of the plan now. Begin meeting with our allies, give them leaflets and the books I gave to you. And tell them to begin sowing the seeds. Once we have got that all done, the final end game can come into being.”

Leopold bows his head and then asks. “And the King, when will he come out from the shadows?”

At this the Hooded Figure straightens, his voice is soft when he replies. “The King will emerge when the time is right. Right now there is much more that needs to be done. There is much more that you need to do, that we all need to do before the King can emerge. Make sure that the snake’s whore does not find you, she will have an eye here and elsewhere, but make sure that she does not find you. For if she finds you, then we are all lost.”

Leopold bows his head, mutters a farewell to the figure and then walks out of the room. Knowing full well that the figure will likely be having him followed, he keeps walking, he ducks and turns, the figure might know these streets, but Leopold was born and raised here, he knows every corner of the streets, of the port. He knows more about this place, than the spider knew about King’s Landing. And so he walks and walks, observing the mood of the port, hearing the whispered words, and the words that are not whispered. Smiling as he does so, knowing well that soon enough carnage shall come to the world, and he will feast on it all. Eventually, he comes to the place that he knew he needed to go to. And he finds a figure with a shaved head stood there waiting for him. He stops for a moment to whisper to the figure. “It is happening.” The figure nods their head, and Leopold keeps walking, smiling as he does so, content in the knowledge that soon the world will burn.


	7. Lord Lannister

**3 rd Month of 298 A.C. Casterly Rock**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

The years had flown by, ever since the rebellion had ended and he had been stripped of his white cloak and sent back to the Rock, the years really had flown by. If he were being honest with himself, Jaime had loved almost every moment of it. There had been times when he had wanted to pull his hair out, but most of the time he enjoyed being Lord of the Rock and being a father and a husband. It was that last part that truly made him smile. When he had joined the Kingsguard aged just five and ten, he had forsworn any chance to having a family, and he had accepted that, knowing as he did then, that he was not ready to be a father. But now, after having had three children and having been married to a decade, he knew he would not change it for the world. He loved Ashara and their children. Brave Arthur who reminded him a lot of his wife, with his passion and his fire, sweet Tommen who reminded Jaime a little of himself as a child, and then his darling Joanna who was the apple of his eye. He would not change them for anything in the world. Not even Cersei. The thought of his sister was a bitter one, but he pushed it down quickly enough and instead turned to look at his advisors as they sat down and took their seats.

Ashara was sat to his right as always, their hands linking together under the table, his wife looked absolutely stunning  as always. To her right was Jaime’s brother Tyrion, who was quite smart if somewhat susceptible to wine. And then there was Maester Creylen an old man, but one whom Jaime trusted as much as he trusted his uncle Gerion who was present in the meeting as well. Jaime takes a breath then begins speaking. “It has been a peaceful past few moons. The storms have finally bated and settled, the water is running cleanly, and food stores are filling.  I do not think there could be much more we could ask for. But of course there is always something that needs looking at. So Maester Creylen, tell us, what words have come from my lords bannermen?”

Creylen shifts through the scrolls before him, and then picking one up he reads aloud. “Lord Crakehall complains about a little skirmish going on between himself and his cousins. He wishes for you to pass judgement over it.”

Jaime groans internally, Lord Crakehall was one of his strongest supporters and lords, and yet the man was damned near insufferably, and he was almost always bickering with one person or another. Jaime looks at the maester and asks. “What exactly is it that they are arguing over this time?”

Creylen gives him an amused smile and then looking down at the letter responds. “It seems there is some tract of land within the Crakehall ancestral lands that is being disputed between the two of them. Lord Crakehall claims that as Head of the House, the land belongs to him, whilst his cousin Ser Summer argues that the land was bequeathed to him.”

Jaime sighs audibly this time, knowing as he does that such a dispute will not be cut and dry, such things are often quite messy. The thought of a messy dispute is not one he wants to consider. He looks at the Maester and asks. “I presume you have done some reading into this piece of land?”

“I have.” The maester replies.

“And?” Jaime asks. “Who does the land actually belong to?”

Here the maester shifts slightly, and his voice is slightly quieter when he replies. “The land belongs to the Rock my lord.” Seeing Jaime’s surprised expression, the man elaborates. “The land was given to Lord Tywin as insurance for some building developments that Lord Crakehall’s grandfather wished to enact on his castle. As he did not have the money to pay for the fee, he had to give the land off as insurance, and none have since tried to buy the land back.”

That surprises Jaime, not the fact that his father had demanded some sort of insurance, after looking through the account books, he knows what sort of methods his father used to ensure his lords paid on time. No he is surprised by the fact that Lord Crakehall has not tried to buy the land back sooner, or that they did not even think of it. Sighing, he takes a sip of wine and then says. “Very well, send word to Crakehall and his cousin, tell them to come to the Rock to state their cases. Should there be suitable evidence, I will present the truth of the matter to them.” the maester nods, and Jaime feels Ashara squeeze his hand reassuringly. He squeezes back and then looks at his uncle Gerion and asks. “What word have you gotten from your contacts uncle? What else is happening within the West?”

His uncle is a delightable trickster, but is a man who is very good at finding out things people do not want him to find out. As such, the smile that greets Jaime’s question, informs him that there is probably some very juicy piece of information that he is about to be told. “Well my lord, since you have asked, it seems that Lady Cersei is trying her hand at ruling once more.”

Jaime sighs. “Why? What is she trying to do now? And where is that oaf of a husband of hers?”

His uncle smiles and then responds. “It seems that she is trying to impose a tax on the gold that comes into the merchants of Lannisport’s pockets. And given that the merchants report directly to her husband, the Rock is unable to directly intervene. Needless to say, the merchants are not happy about this, and are threatening to go elsewhere.”

Jaime looks at his uncle and asks. “And why have they not?”

His uncle laughs. “The reason for that, is because your sister is holding the lead merchant’s son a hostage. Saying that she will have the boy executed if the merchant even tries to look elsewhere.”

Jaime groans at that, sometimes he wonders what happened to his sister, whether she was always this stupid or if something else happened to her after the rebellion. As he expects, Tyrion speaks then, his voice sardonic. “Ah, trust our sweet sister to go ahead and make an enemy out of a powerful merchant.”

Jaime looks at his brother, shooting him a silencing look, now is not the time to be making quips. He then looks at Ser Gerion and says. “I want you to send one of your contacts to meet with this merchant, and tell him that we shall give him his son back.” The man nods, and Jaime turns to look at Maester Creylen and says. “Send word to Lannisport, tell Cersei that she is to release the boy into my possession and that she is to come to the Rock.”

He feels Ashara stiffen at his side and hears her ask. “What will you do to her?”

Jaime squeezes his wife’s hand reassuringly, he knows Ashara does not trust Cersei, and frankly he doesn’t trust Cersei now either, there was a time when such a thought would’ve been unbelievable but not now. He takes a deep breath then replies. “I will discipline her, fining her and taking one of her children as a ward should do the trick.” He hears his wife gasp, and knows that regardless of her feelings toward Cersei, Ashara is still a mother and the thought of being parted from any of their children is unbearable to her. He looks at her then when he replies. “It is something that needs to be done, she needs to be taught that this is unacceptable.”

“Which child will you take?” his wife asks.

Jaime thinks for a moment, his firstborn and heir Arthur is currently in King’s Landing as one of the King’s companions, and truth be told, the thought of taking Joffrey on as a ward is not a pleasant thought. Instead he looks at his wife and replies. “Myrcella, she and Joanna are of an age, and it would Joanna good to get to know her cousin.”

His wife nods, whilst Tyrion replies. “You know Cersei is not going to take this lying down.”

Jaime looks at his brother and says simply. “She will not have a chance.” A pause as his brother nods, and then he asks. “Now what word has there been from the capital? How have the King and his hand dealt with the troubles?” When word had come of the troubles during the King’s coronation, Jaime had been worried, Arthur had been there, carrying the King’s sword, but thankfully, his son was well, still he worried.

His brother takes a moment and then says. “The King and the hand have been rounding up members of the Poor Fellows and any of the citizens who were known to be working with them, and have been questioning them.”

“And?” Jaime questions. “What results have they gotten?”

His brother shrugs, in that offhand manner he has. “Some have spoken, others have not. But regardless, none of the words they say are definitive.”

Jaime sighs, he remembers the promise he had made to Prince Rhaegar, as well as to the King, when the boy was but a babe, and he feels as if he should have been there, but there’s nothing he could’ve done, and truth be told, he does not wish to go to King’s Landing unless he has to. And so he asks. “Is the marriage still going ahead as planned?”

His brother nods his head, looking surprised that Jaime would even ask such a thing. “Of course, within the moon or perhaps the next one. The Tyrells and the Hand of the King have invested far too much time into this to prevent it from happening. There will be two weddings, one held in the Godswood and one in the Great Sept of Baelor.”

Jaime takes this information in and then says. “Very well, a rather smooth move by the Hand of the King. No doubt the Tyrells will try and get into the High Septon’s good books.” That last bit is said with a lot of disdain, the Tyrells are nothing more than ambitious climbers, that much he has always known. Still at least his family have been kept out of the game in King’s Landing.

His brother nods. “Aye, that much is likely to be true.” His brother pauses and then says. “It would also seem that your presence is expected in King’s Landing brother. As Lord of the Rock and Warden of the West. It seems the King is most eager to meet you.”

Jaime looks at his brother and feels something akin to nervousness filter through him, he has not been back to the capital since the day he was dismissed, something about the place seems off, and out of place, yet now he has to confront those feelings. He looks at his wife and sees something akin to fear in her eyes as well. “When does the King expect us to be there?”

His brother looks at him and then at Ashara, then back at him again. “I think that he wants you to be there within the moon.”

Jaime looks at his brother surprised. “Within the moon?” He thinks of all the retainers and other things he will need to bring with him, and he thinks of what to do with Tommen and Joanna, as well as dealing with Cersei and then he sighs.

“Yes. It seems that the King is desperate to have all his great lords in attendance.” Tyrion replies.

Jaime thinks on that, and thinks of the last time all the great lords were in King’s Landing and he shudders. He wonders what the King is planning, and as he looks at Ashara he thinks that he would rather not know.


	8. Kingly Pursuits

****

**3 rd Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

After years of waiting, he was now officially the King, in deed as well as name. That thought was one that always brought a smile to his face. Ever since he had been old enough to understand what it meant to be King, he had waited for the day that he would not need a regent, it was not that he did not appreciate all the time and effort his grandfather had put into helping rule the realm during his minority, but he wanted to be able to put the lessons he had learned into practice. To be able to make it or break it on his own merits. And now he finally had that change. The coronation ceremony had been a pleasant one, when the crown had been placed atop his head, he had felt such a rush of energy, it was like nothing he had ever felt before, and he had been with his fair share of women. Then the Poor Fellows had attacked, and things had almost gone sideways, but thanks to his grandsire they had managed to bring order back to the proceedings. His grandsire had suffered an injury, but he was alright now, and so Jonothor was determined to see justice brought to the fools who had dared attack a member of his family.

The small council had all gathered in the council chamber at his suggestion, his grandfather who was hand, Lord Wyman, the portly master of coin, Lord Staunton, who was master of laws a man Jonothor knew he could rely on, Lord Velaryon who was master of ships, a true and proper servant, Lady Ellaria, with her fire who was his mistress of whispers. Grand Maester Ebrose, a man Jonothor knew but was not sure of, and then there was Ser Gerold Hightower, the White Bull, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard and someone Jonothor knew he could count on throughout thick and thin. A strong council. Jonothor takes a moment to collect his thoughts, then he begins speaking. “It has been almost two moons since my coronation. The High Septon continues to blather on about uniting the crown and the faith, in a strong show of faith. And whilst such a thing might have been beneficial before, now it only serves to annoy me. Lord Staunton, those Poor Fellows and their families that you have questioned, what have they had to say for themselves?”

Lord Staunton takes a moment before replying, when he does, his words are slow and considered. “The Poor Fellows questioned have said little to nothing, Your Grace. They continue to remain defiant in their silence. Their families follow their lead, all except for one.” Jonothor raises a questioning eyebrow, and the man elaborates. “It seems that this one particular family has had enough of being subjected to torture and questioning. As the man of the household said, he and his wife and two other children, had done nothing wrong, they were good subjects who paid their taxes and worked hard. Their eldest son had been brought into the wrong crowd.”

Jonothor looks at his grandsire, who looks unconvinced, but then, the man had been injured by the fools, and so deciding to trust his own curiosity, Jonothor asks. “And what crowd was that, that their son was brought into?”

“An intimate circle of the Sparrow himself, Sire.” Staunton replies, and seeing to evident look of surprise on his King’s face, the man continues. “I too was surprised when I heard this. At first, I did not believe them, but they swore on it, and after speaking with Ser Alliser, I found that their words were true. There were letters and all kinds of other things in the boy’s room, that suggest an intimate link to the Sparrow.”

Jonothor does not need to ask what sort of things these could be; he thinks he knows them well enough. The swords, the daggers, the books of the Seven with hidden meanings, his dreams had told him all of this, as had the old one. He nods in acceptance and then asks. “Where would the boy meet with the Sparrow and his inner circle? What is this boy called?”

At this Staunton smiles slightly. “He has the most unusual name of Leopold Your Grace. It seems his parents took a liking to the name from someone they once knew long ago. As to where the boy and the Sparrow and his circle would meet, it seems that was somewhere deep underground, neath’ the city and in the tunnels that were constructed long ago.”

“A specific location?” Jonothor asks.

Staunton shakes his head. “Unfortunately not Sire. It seems that the meeting place would change.”

His grandsire speaks then. “For those who claim not to know much about the goings on of their son and the Sparrow, they seem to know an awful lot about the meeting place.”

Staunton looks at Jonothor’s grandsire, and says simply. “They had had their son followed after the coronation.”

Jonothor smirks, looking at Lady Ellaria, who smiles knowingly, the game had begun truly it seemed. Turning back to Staunton he says. “Very well. Keep probing at the wound, see what other truths come from this.” Staunton bows his head in acknowledgement, and then Jonothor turns his attention to Lady Ellaria. “My lady, what more have you been able to gather on the Sparrow? Do we know where he comes from?”

He feels something in his chest sink when Lady Ellaria shakes her head. “We do not have anything definitive Sire. It seems that the Sparrow has done his best to keep his origins a secret. There are those who claim he comes from the Riverlands, others that claim he comes from the Reach, whilst there are even claims he comes from the Vale. But none can agree exactly where he comes from.”

“He would not have come from nowhere. He is not the Spider.” Lord Velaryon says.

“Lord Monford is right. My lady, I know you are looking, but I suggest, speaking with your friends in the Vale, see what they have to say. I think we might be onto something there.” Jonothor says.

His grandsire looks at him then and asks. “Do you truly think he would be from there Sire?”

Jonothor nods. “I think so. The Vale has always been the most Andal Kingdom within the realm, and they were the first to rise for the false Stag when he rebelled. They have a history and they need someone to look to. Jasper is my friend, but there are those who are not keen on that.” He expects his grandsire to protest, but is relieved when the man merely nods. With that matter dealt with, Jonothor turns the attention of the council to the next important matter. “So, now that we have dealt with that, tell me, how goes the preparation for the wedding?”

His grandsire is the one who replies, his voice filled with pride. “The wedding preparations are going very well Sire. We shall have the Great Sept of Baelor for the true ceremony, with the Faith decked out in their finery as a show of support. And a Priest from the Isle of Faces has come for the second ceremony.” That had been Jonothor’s idea, he was a member of both the Faith and the Old Gods, he wanted to celebrate both, and Margaery had been more than happy to oblige, the thought of his betrothed brought a smile to his face, he could not wait to see her later.

Bringing his attention back to the matters at hand, he smiles at his grandfather and replies. “That is good. I trust the High Septon knows that any interruptions this time will not be tolerated?”

“Oh most definitely Your Grace. He has been reminded of the consequences.” Lord Rickard replies.

Jonothor grins at that. “Good, that is very good.” he pauses for a moment, then looks at Lord Wyman and asks the master of coin. “And how are we looking for expenditure? I know the Tyrells are providing some of the money required for the wedding festivities, but the bulk of it is coming from the crown’s own coffers, so tell me my lord Wyman, how are we looking?”

Lord Wyman is a calculating man, that much Jonothor has always known, but the man is fiercely loyal both to Jonothor and to his grandfather, so, so long as he remains loyal, Jonothor does not much care what schemes he has going on in the shadows. “The crown’s coffers have more than enough gold to be able to cover the festivities and much more should that be something you wish to do Your Grace. And with the generous dowry the Tyrells are providing, we shall have more than enough money when all is said and done.”

Jonothor nods, pleased with the assertion, deciding that there does not seem to be much more for them to discuss, he rises, Ser Gerold rising with him, followed shortly by the rest of the council. “Well, seeing as the two main issues that I wanted to discuss have been discussed, I believe we can bring this meeting to an end. Till the next time.” With that he nods to the members of the council, before turning and walking out of the room, Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur of the Kingsguard walking behind him.

As he walks, Jonothor finds himself admiring the structure of the Red Keep, even though he had grown up within the keep, he had never really taken the time to appreciate just how beautiful it was. The red bricks were strong and had withstood much over the years, just like his family. There was power within the keep, and there was power without. The Red Keep was a great monster of a castle, standing as it did over Aegon’s High Hill, it overlooked the city of King’s Landing, like a sleeping dragon overlooking its gold and treasure. The city was the castle, and the castle was the city. Jonothor could appreciate that now, something he had never really been able to appreciate before. He finds his thoughts turning toward other matters. “Ser Gerold.” He calls and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard comes forward.

“Your Grace?” the great bull of a man asks.

Jonothor considers his next few words carefully, he trusts the old man at his side, but what he is about to ask involves family, and if there is one thing he has learned, is that sometimes people put their family before their loyalty to the crown. And so with that in mind he asks. “How well do you know your nephew, Lord Leyton?”

He can hear if not see Ser Gerold’s confusion at the question, though eventually the man replies. “I know him reasonably well. Though he was a boy the last time I truly saw him in person Your Grace.”

Jonothor nods. “I want you to send him a letter. Tell him that there is something in the citadel that he might find very interesting.” Whilst if he what he has heard about the Lord of Oldtown is true, the man will definitely find the book interesting, Jonothor knows he will find it more so. He needs the book to be able to do what needs to be done.

“And what might the book be called Your Grace?” Ser Gerold asks.

Jonothor considers the question for a moment, he knows the book has two titles, one which Hightower might recognise and object to, the other, the other is not so well known, and so he goes with that title. “It is called the Book of Absolutes and Shadows, by one Maester Munkun.”

“Very well Your Grace, I shall write to my nephew and inform him of your request. Do you wish for him to write to you as well?” Ser Gerold asks.

Jonothor stops walking then, Hightower and Dayne stopping as well. He turns and looks at Hightower. “Yes, if you could request that of him that would be most useful.” He turns round, and sees that they are at his room, and he feels a thrill of anticipation. “Now if you excuse me Sers, I have a few things I need to do in my room. I shall see you later.” With that he smiles at them, opens the door to his room and walks in. as soon as the door is closed behind him, he sees her move towards him, and he smiles as their lips touch. “Did you miss me?” he asks.

“Yes.” Comes Margaery’s breathy reply.

“Well then let us sort that out shall we?” he replies grinning wolfishly, as he moves them to the bed.

 

 


	9. Marriage

**4 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lady Margaery Tyrell**

The day of her marriage had finally dawned. It had been agreed upon when she and her husband to be were just babes, and now it was finally here. To say she was eager for it come, would be an understatement. Her entire life had been geared towards this moment, this entire day was hers, and her husband to be’s. Margaery had been taught how to play the game by her grandmother, she had learned the courtly arts from her mother at Highgarden, and then she had honed those skills in the capital, serving as a Lady in Waiting to Princess Daenerys. She had made a lot of friends here at court, the Princess was a good friend, as close as a sister, Lady Sansa was another, a good friend, someone she could count on. Then there were others as well, but they were not as important. Margaery was happy in King’s Landing, and was very happy that she would now be marrying her King, a day they had both looked forward to for a long time. Her King was very handsome, his hair was curly, his eyes were dark and piercing, his face beautiful to look at. He was caring and kind, and strong as well. He would make a perfect King; she was sure of it. And she would be there at his side to help him.

She wore a flowing green dress, her hair braided, the green and gold cloak of House Tyrell around her shoulders, they were marrying first in the Godswood of the Red Keep, in a nod to the King’s northern heritage, before moving to the Great Sept. As she and her father come to a stop, she hears the priest from the Isle of Faces speak, in a deep and booming voice, a surprise for one so small. “Who comes here to this place?”

Her father speaks then, his voice brimming with pride. “Lady Margaery of the House Tyrell comes. Who would claim her?”

The King, dressed in red and black, his crown atop his head, steps forward then and Margaery feels her breath hitch. “Jonothor, of the House Targaryen claims her.”

A moment of silence, and then the priest speaks. “Come forth now, Lady Margaery and let us have this wedding begin.” Margaery steps forward then and comes to stand beside her husband, she gives him a smile, a smile he returns and she feels her heart begin quickening in her chest. The priest starts speaking once more. “We are here today for the most holy of ceremonies, the union of two people, of two people in love. The marriage of a King to his Queen. The vows are to be said by the newlyweds and they are of their own making.”

There is some whispering at that, but it quickly quietens down. Her King looks at her then, and smiles, before speaking. “I, Jonothor of the House Targaryen, King of Westeros, do hereby swear to love and care for you, through sickness and health, through youth and old age. Through winter and summer, and all that those seasons bring. I promise to love you with everything I have, and I promise to keep you safe. By ice and fire, I do swear this.”

Margaery can feel the tears coming but she blinks once, and then smiles, before continuing. “I, Margaery of the House Tyrell, do hereby swear to love and care for you, through sickness and health, through youth and old age. I promise to listen to your concerns and help you as best I can. I promise to provide you with strong boys and beautiful girls, so that your line might continue. I swear to keep your counsel and to love you regardless of the station of the realm. I swear this by ice and fire.”

She sees her King smile, and her heart soars. The Priest looks at them both, and then says. “If there is none here who would object to the union of His Grace, King Jonothor, and Her Ladyship, Lady Margaery, then I now say you may kiss.”

Needing no further prompting Margaery and her King move to meet one another, they meet in the middle and their lips crash against one another. It is a deep kiss, a passionate one, and when they break apart, Margaery can tell her face is flushed. There is some cheering, but it does not last for long, for they must make their way to the Great Sept for the second, more official ceremony, she knows that word official is something that angers her husband. But as of right now there is little they can do about that. They get into a carriage and ride down the hill to the Great Sept, where there are thousands upon thousands of people waiting for them. There is a cheer when she steps down, and enters the sept, but there is an even louder one when the King appears.

This second ceremony passes by in a bit of a blur, Margaery wants it over and done with so they can move to the feast, and then onto the bedding. She and her husband, have done all manner of things, but the one thing she most wants. They both know how important it is that she keeps her maidenhead until tonight. Eventually, the High Septon, a man Margaery trusts not at all, says they might kiss, once their vows are said, and so they kiss. They then move out to the balcony, where they are greeted by the roaring of the crowd, thousands upon thousands cheering and screaming. Her husband turns to her and whispers. “They are all here for us my love.” She smiles and kisses him, earning her another cheer of approval from the crowd. From there, they move onwards, heading out to the Red Keep, and the throne room by horse, the Kingsguard at their side, and her husband holding her hand as they ride through the streets. Nothing goes wrong, and they arrive at the Red Keep and the throne room unscathed and happy.

They enter the throne room, and Margaery gasps at how beautiful it looks, the dragon skulls are there adorned in paint and all kinds of other things, the banners of her house and the King’s house are there hung proudly from the walls. There are tables, and food, and there in the distance is the throne. Her husband leads her to the table, just in front of the throne and together they stand, her husband speaks then. “To my lords and ladies, thank you all for coming. Today we drink and eat, and celebrate.” A cheer, then the King speaks once more. “To my beautiful wife and Queen. The Lady Margaery!” her husband lifts his cup, as do everyone else who is in the throne room, and Margaery smiles widely. Eventually they sit down and begin eating.

As they eat, Margaery looks around the room, seeing various lords and ladies, that she has heard about her whole life, but never really met, now that she is the Queen she could summon them all and they would have to come. She feels her husband entwine their hands together under the table and looks at him smiling. “This is lovely, very lovely.”

Her husband smiles and jokingly says. “I know I am, you’ve told me that countless times my lady wife, but tell me, what are you making of the feast?”

Margaery snorts, and hits his arm playfully. “I was talking about the feast you idiot.” She grins slyly then. “Though I must admit, you are quite lovely as well.” She moves forward and presses a quick kiss to her husband’s lips before pulling away smiling.

Her husband looks at her and smiles as well, then he whispers to her. “Look over there, look at Florent, the fool’s getting drunk as can be off of wine we provided him. Come the morrow he will complain.”

Margaery looks at Lord Florent, and sees him downing one cup of wine after another, and regaling someone or the other with tales of false bravery. She snorts. “He might not survive all that drinking. And then the Florents will complain.”

Her husband looks at her a moment, then to Florent then back at her before softly replying. “Let them try. They have nothing to go on. Florent is drinking himself to death, nothing more, nothing less.”

Margaery nods, though she knows the Florents, they are a difficult lot. Still, it is her wedding day and she does not want to get caught up in all of that. She sees her husband has started talking to Lord Rosby, and so she turns to talk to Princess Daenerys. “You look lovely Dany. I really like what you’ve done with your hair.”

The Princess blushes, she is a shy girl, but a beautiful one, and with her hair braided the way it is, Margaery is sure she will have a dozen proposals by the day’s end. “Thank you Your Grace.”

“Oh please, don’t call me that. We’re still friends Dany, call me by my name.” Margaery replies smiling.

The Princess smiles sweetly then. “Well if you insist, Margaery.” They share a giggle, then Dany continues. “You look absolutely lovely Margaery. And the wedding ceremonies were just divine.”

Margaery smiles in response. “Thank you, a lot of effort when into them and this.” she pauses for a moment, thinking about something she had heard, and then asks. “So Dany, when will you be getting married?”

The Princess sputters slightly, causing Margaery’s smile to get wider, her words come out in a rush when she says. “What? What do you mean?”

Margaery raises her eyebrows suggestively. “You and Lord Robb seemed to have grown closer. Do tell.”

The Princess blushes an adorable red, before replying. “There’s nothing there, honestly Margaery, there’s nothing there.”

Margaery quirks an eyebrow at her friend and asks. “Are you sure?”

The Princess nods. “I am. Honestly, Margaery, there’s nothing there. We’re just friends.”

Margaery is not sure she believes her friend, but merely nods, before changing the topic. “So tell me, what else is new with you? I know it’s been a while since we spoke, so do tell me, what else has been happening?”

Her friend takes a moment to think, then she says. “Well, I was speaking with Sansa two days ago, and she told me, she thinks her father is considering betrothing her Arthur Lannister.”

That surprises Margaery, Arthur Lannister, is a good boy, but that is what he is, he’s not like Sansa at all. She purses her lips then and says. “I think that might be more the Hand’s idea, building stronger connections between their two houses. I know Lord Jaime is here, and that in itself suggests something more is going on.”

“I thought, the King asked Lord Jaime to come to King’s Landing for the wedding?” her friend asks sounding confused.

“He did.” Margaery replies. “But, I think that was more at his grandsire’s suggestion than his own need to see the man.”

Daenerys looks quite thoughtful at this, and replies. “That would be quite interesting. Lord Jaime is very handsome.” She giggles a little then, prompting Margaery to giggle as well.

Her husband speaks then. “And what might you two be giggling about?”

“How handsome Lord Jaime is.” Margaery says.

Her husband looks at her with a wry smile on his face. “Oh you think he’s handsome do you?”

Margaery smiles and leans forward kissing her husband before replying. “Not as handsome as you.”

“Some of us are trying to eat here.” She hears Dany say, she turns and laughs.

“Well, you could always kiss Robb.” Margaery teases, she laughs when her friend blushes bright scarlet.

“What’s this?” her husband asks.

“Daenerys likes Robb.” Margaery informs her husband.

Before her husband can reply, or Daenerys can protest, a shout goes out across the room. “To bed with them!” as the cry is taken up by many others within the room, Margaery sees her husband being hoisted into the air, quickly followed by herself. Laughing she allows herself to be carried to her bedchamber, jesting and japing with the men.


	10. Lion In King's Landing

**4 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

It felt odd to be back here, in this place. There were a lot of mixed memories in the Red Keep and King’s Landing, for Jaime Lannister. This was the place where he had met his wife and fallen in love, but this was also the place where he had learned the true intentions of men. Their black hearts, and their lies disguised as pleasantries. It was a mixed feeling for him. Ashara and he had come, leaving their younger children in the Rock to the security of Tyrion and Gerion. They had met Arthur, and Jaime was proud to see the fine young man his son was becoming. His son reminded him a little of himself at that age, with his pale hair, his green eyes and his lithe build. There was a confidence there that was equal parts him as it was Ashara. Jaime was proud of his son, proud of the young man he was, and the man he was becoming. He often found himself, if this was the pride his own father had felt when Jaime had been Arthur’s age, and if that was why he had always tried to get Jaime out of the Kingsguard.

Meeting his former sworn brothers at the wedding had been intriguing, they had greeted him reasonably well, Ser Arthur had smiled at him, and Ser Oswell had cracked a few jokes. Ser Gerold remained stoically silent though, as was his way. It was an interesting occasion, seeing Rhaegar’s son now a man, with a crown on his head, so in love with his wife. The wedding had been a good one, but Jaime was glad it was over, for that meant he could speak with Lord Rickard who was the Hand, and still Lord of Winterfell, and then move on home, taking his son with him, as per their agreement. He was sat in the solar in the Tower of the Hand, Lord Rickard was sat before him, gazing at him intently, there were two cups of untouched wine before them both. Eventually, Lord Rickard breaks  the silence. “I trust all has been well for you here my lord?” Jaime looks at the man and sees how quickly age is catching up with the man. He remembers his father saying something about Lord Rickard, long ago. Something about the man being more than he seemed.

“Everything has been most suitable, my lord hand. Thank you for that.” Jaime responds politely. “I would also like to thank you for making sure that my son Arthur enjoyed his stay here, and that he has grown from the young boy he was.”

The Hand merely waves a hand. “It was no bother my lord of Lannister. Arthur is a good boy, and someone who will make a very fine knight and lord when the time comes.”

Jaime feels pride bloom at the man’s words. “He speaks very highly of you my lord Hand. He says that you have taught him a lot.”

A paternal smile crosses the hand’s face then for the briefest of moments before disappearing. “That is good.” the man pauses, and Jaime can sense that there is more to come, the main reason he has come is approaching. “Now, I am sure you are fully aware that whilst the King was the one who summoned you here, I am the one who requested your presence.”

Jaime nods, he had expected as much. “I am.”

“Good.” The Hand says. “Our two houses have a long history of working together. When the Ironborn were threatening our shores recently, we worked together to throw them back. When those fools in the West tried to bring damage to you, we provided aid. And before that, during the times of Beron Stark and Gerold Lannister, we worked together to end the threats that were facing our two realms. Through all of that we have worked and fought side by side. Now I think the time is right for us to seal our alliance and friendship through marriage.”

Jaime had been expecting something like this, though it still comes as a surprise. “A marriage my lord Hand? Between whom, might I ask?”

The Hand of the King smiles. “Come now, my lord, we both know who this marriage would be between. Or rather betrothal. I have a granddaughter who is of an age with your son Arthur. I think the time is right for a betrothal. They need not marry now, that can wait till they are older. But betrothing them now gives them the chance to get to know one another, and ensure that they work well together.”

Jaime spends a moment to think on this, knowing as he does, the benefits that would come from tying himself closer to the Hand’s family, it would give him an in with the King as well, and a chance to ensure his promise is fulfilled. He thinks on it for a moment, and then responds. “It is certainly a very tempting offer my lord Hand. I will need to speak with my wife about it, and ensure that we are both in agreement. I am sure you can understand.” He says that last bit, thinking wryly of Lady Lyarra Stark, who is a formidable woman in her own right, and allegedly the lady who came up with the Stark-Tully alliance, if Aunt Genna is to be believed.

The Hand of the King has clearly caught onto what he was saying, for he smiles as he responds. “Oh most definitely, take all the time you want, my lord. Discuss it with your wife, make sure she is happy with it, and let me know, before you leave. I will need to make the necessary arrangements with my son.”

Jaime nods. “Of course my lord Hand.” With that they fall into silence for a moment, and then Jaime says. “If you would excuse me my lord Hand, I believe the King requested my presence at this time.” The Hand gestures for him to stand, and he does so, the Hand standing up at the same time. Jaime nods to the older man and then leaves the tower of the Hand.

As he walks, Jaime looks around at his surroundings, though it has been many years, the Red Keep has not changed much. It still holds that feeling of grandeur and promise, of a better future, and a worse past. As if the ghosts of the past, and the dreams of the future are mingling together, forming some sort of strange song. It is an idle thought, one that brings an amused quirk to his lips, that thought is something that Tommen might come up with, his second son a bit of a dreamer, like the Prince had once been. The thought of the Prince, brings nerves filtering through into his system, he is going to meet the Prince’s son, that is not something one can take lightly. He wonders what the King wishes to speak to him about, and thinks that he knows what it will be, somewhere deep down, he has always known. He comes to door to the King’s chambers, and finds Ser Oswell and Ser Arthur standing guard outside, he nods to them both, waits for Arthur to announce him, and then from a nod from Ser Arthur, he enters the King’s chambers.

The King, is a young man, with curly hair, and piercing eyes, he sits on a chair in front of table, wearing the red and black of his house, his crown atop his head. The King rises as he enters and says. “Ah, Lord Jaime. Please do take a seat.” Jaime sits down in the offered chair, one that is close to the King, but not too close, he notes that Ser Gerold and Ser Jon Redfort of the Kingsguard are standing in the shadows, watching. “I trust your talk with my Lord Hand was not too tedious?”

Jaime shakes his head, nerves still there. “Of course not Your Grace. It was a most interesting experience. Lord Rickard is an interesting man.”

The King nods, and Jaime gets the distinct impression that the man is weighing him up, just as his father would’ve done. Eventually, the man speaks. “So tell me my lord, how are you finding being back in King’s Landing? I was but a babe when last you were here. Has it changed much?”

Jaime considers the question, and considers his response. “King’s Landing has always been an interesting city Your Grace, in that bits of it might change, but overall it will remain the same.” He sees the smirk on the King’s face, and knows he has given the right answer. “As to how I feel about being back here, well it is an interesting experience. Being here for your wedding was a good way to return. Congratulations, by the way, Your Grace. Queen Margaery is a beautiful woman.”

The King smirks, and then his smirk softens into a soft smile. “That she is. I am a lucky man truly I am.” A pause, and Jaime senses that the King is looking for the words to ask the questions he clearly has. Eventually, the Young King speaks, his voice cautious. “I am sure you are wondering why I asked you here, my lord. The truth is, I have been curious about you.” Jaime sees the man hesitate, and feels his own heart begin to quicken. “I know you were one of the last people my father, Prince Rhaegar, spoke to, and I would know what he spoke you about. And what he was like.”

Jaime tries to keep his sigh of relief as quiet as possible, and thinks he largely succeeds. He takes a moment to consider the King’s question and then replies. “Before he left for the Trident Prince Rhaegar told me to guard King Aerys, your grandsire, and if necessary do what was necessary to protect the people from him.” He sees understanding dawn in the King’s eyes and feels relief flow through him. It is that relief that encourages him to continue. “Prince Rhaegar was a good man, he was a true knight, but he had his faults. He was a dreamer, who never stopped to think that perhaps dreams and reality were two different things. he suffered for that.”

The King looks at him curiously, before asking. “Do you think he would have made a good King?”

Jaime exhales softly at that question, and the weight it carries. He thinks over what response he will give, and then decides on one. “I think that before Harrenhal, he would have made a good figurehead King. My father would have tried to do all the ruling. After Harrenhal and had he survived the rebellion, I think he would have done his best. And at the end of the day, that is all anyone can ask for.” He wants to ask why the King wants to know, but deep down he knows why. Of course the King would want to know.

The King seems to be deep in thought over what he has said, and so Jaime sits in silence, waiting for the man to speak. Eventually, when he does so, the King’s words are once more considered. “Do you think then that his decision to take my mother was based on lust, or actual sense?”

This is a question that catches Jaime off guard, but after looking at the King, he thinks it is one that the King has wanted to ask for a long time, but hasn’t. He takes a moment to think about his answer, then says. “I think it might have been equal parts lust and sense, Your Grace. I do not think anyone can truly know what went on between your father and your mother, apart from them both. And they are both gone from this world.”

The King nods, seemingly accepting his answer. “Thank you Lord Jaime. And thank you for allowing Arthur to come and foster here, I shall miss him.”

Jaime smiles. “He will miss you as well Your Grace.”


	11. Wolf

****

**5 th Month of 298 A.C. Winterfell**

**Eddard Stark**

Summer was beginning to wane, that was the feeling Ned got whenever he looked outside and saw the summer snows, when he saw the sun and watched as its light faded. Summer was waning and winter was coming, and still he had not really spoken to his father since the day he had left for Winterfell all those years ago. Oh, he had communicated with him through letters, but there had been nothing more than that. He had written to ask if his father wished for him to attend the King’s coronation, and had been told no, that he was the Stark in Winterfell and needed to remain so. He had asked if his father wanted him and Catelyn and the rest of the children to be there when the King was married, and was told no, he was the Stark in Winterfell, and needed to remain so. And so he remained in Winterfell, with Cat, and their children, well the children who were not fostering in the south. There was a part of Ned that felt sad his relationship with his father had gotten to this point, whilst there was another part that was glad he didn’t have to see the man every day. He did not think he could bear to do so. Not now, not anymore.

Ned had developed a life in Winterfell, with his wife and their children. He loved Cat, he really loved her, he loved her smile, her laugh, how she looked, and the way she made him feel. He loved her with everything he had, and the thought of not being with her terrified him, more than he would ever truly admit. Their children were strong and healthy, Robb, well Robb was in the south, but he was a confident young man by all accounts and Ned was proud of him. Rickon, his second son, reminded him a lot of Brandon, he was bold, charming and brash, but he had a good heart. Sansa seemed sweet and kind from her letters, and Ned remembered her being as much. Arya, Arya reminded Ned of Lyanna, and that brought with it a whole host of fears and worries. Then there were the twins, Bran and Berena, both of whom were curious about the world around them, and were sweet children. Yes, they had quite the brood of children, and Ned was happy so very happy with his lot. But of course, as the Stark in Winterfell, there were things he needed to attend to.

He takes a breath, looks around the room, and then looking at Maester Luwin says. “Maester, word has come from Benjen that the progress of the development of the Western fleet is progressing nicely. However, he claims that the gold we need to ensure complete security is lacking in funds. Is this true?”

Maester Luwin is a good man, but there are times when Ned wonders if he has an ulterior motive. The man is silent for a moment and then says. “The gold is being sent out as we speak my lord Eddard. Your lord father, had instructed that it be sent out every three weeks at a certain time.”

Ned feels Catelyn take his hand then, as frustration rolls through him, even though his father is in the south, and has entrusted almost everything to him, he continues to control everything. It is aggravating. “I see. And why was I not informed of this? If I remember correctly, Lord Rickard had said that I was the one to ask when it came to these payments.”

The Maester bows his head and murmurs. “Forgive me my lord. But Lord Rickard was most insistent that this be the case.”

 _I’m sure he was, and I’m sure you were the one who urged him to be. Just like Walys was._ Ned thinks to himself bitterly, but aloud he merely says. “Very well, so I trust the next payment shall be heading out within the day?”

“Yes my lord.” Luwin replies.

“Good, we would not want the builders to go without their money for even a moment. We all know what might happen if that were to be the case.” Ned replies, thinking back to when the builders had tried to stop working. He had ridden out from Winterfell and hanged every single one of them, to send a message. He was not proud of that, but it had needed to be done, his father had shown him that much at least.

“Of course, my lord.” Luwin replies, in a voice that suggests nothing but contempt.

Ned wants to snap at the man, but instead he sighs and says. “Very well. Tell me maester, what word has there been from Lord Farwynd? Has the man managed to find anything on his travels?” Lord Farwynd had begged permission from Ned for leave to travel to some of the more remote areas of the north, to find something, what that something was Ned did not know, and he was beginning to think he did not want to know.

“There has been no word from Lord Farwynd himself my lord, but there has been word from one of the men who was with him.” Luwin replies.

“What do you mean one of the men who was with him?” Ned asks. “Has Farwynd suffered desertions?” the thought would not surprise him, after all this time, there are still some northmen who cannot see past the fact that Farwynd is from the Iron Islands.

“Not so much desertions, as the fact that he seems to have gone missing.” Luwin replies calmly.

“Missing? What do you mean he has gone missing?” Ned exclaims.

“It would appear that Lord Farwynd took some twenty men with him on a scouting expedition as they got closer to the Dark Mountains, some four weeks ago, and as such, they were expected to return, but never did. This man was writing from Last Hearth.” Luwin replies.

“The Dark Mountains?” Ned asks surprised and shocked. They bordered the New Gift, and were notorious for being quite hard to climb, even for the most experienced climber. “What was the man doing there?”

Luwin shrugs his shoulders. “The letter does not say. It only says that Lord Farwynd was most insistent on going there.”

Ned sighs, thinking he might know exactly what the man has gone looking for, and not really looking forward to having to explain that to his father. “Very well. Send word to Lord Umber, tell him to send out a search group for Lord Farwynd and his men.”

“Yes my lord.” Luwin replies, making a note of that on a piece of parchment. There is a moment’s silence and then Luwin says. “There has been word from Castle Black my lord. Lord Commander Mormont has sent word of some strange occurrences beyond the wall.”

Ned thinks of the direwolves they found when coming back from the execution, and he finds himself asking with some trepidation. “What strange occurrences?”

The maester is silent a moment as he looks over the letter, and then he says. “It seems that ranging parties beyond the wall, have found entire villages, that are usually filled with wildlings, completely empty and deserted. Not a woman, man, or child is there, and there is no food left behind either. It is almost as if they have disappeared.”

Ned feels Catelyn tense at his side, and though he wants to comfort her now, he knows he cannot. Luwin does not know about the dreams his wife has been having, the visions about what is out there, beyond the wall, and what it means. Neither of them know, so instead he asks. “Does the Lord Commander think they might be preparing for an invasion?”

“From what he has written, it seems the Lord Commander thinks that the wildlings might well be preparing for some sort of invasion. It seems as though this Mance Rayder fellow has named himself King Beyond the Wall and is promising to bring the wildlings through the wall.” Luwin says.

Ned snorts. “Wildlings have been trying to do that for thousands of years, and they have not managed to achieve that successfully, or for a long term campaign once. I think we should be fine. But regardless, send word to the Mountain Clans and to Last Hearth, tell them to be prepared and ready. And send word to Castle Black, informing the Lord Commander that should he require assistance Winterfell will be there.”

Ned sees the man take down these words and then ask. “Is there anything else my lord?”

Ned thinks for a moment and then replies. “No, you may leave now maester.” The man rises, bows and then walks out of the room. Ned watches him go with barely contained contempt, and the moment the door closes, he turns to his wife and asks. “Cat, are you okay?”

His wife looks at him, her cheeks pale, and her eyes large. “I don’t know. But doesn’t it seem oddly strange how this is happening now?”

It takes him a moment to understand what his wife is talking about, and then when it clicks he sighs. “Do you think that your dreams are prophetic then my love?”

His wife hits his arm then. “Ned this isn’t a joke. You know what I saw, the wildling invasion and other things. It’s happening now is it not?”

Ned sighs. “I’m sure it’s just a coincidence, I do not think the dreams can predict the future my love.”

Catelyn looks hurt then, but instead of pursuing that topic of conversation, she instead says. “Why do you think Luwin didn’t mention the betrothal offer?”

“I don’t know my love.” Ned replies honestly. “I think father might have told him not to. But then again, I do not know. Father is not known for sharing his complete plans with everyone at once. We have mother to thank for us knowing.”

Cat takes squeezes his hand then and asks. “What do you think of the betrothal?”

Ned hesitates for a moment and then says. “I think it makes sense. Jaime Lannister is one of the most powerful men in the realm as Lord of the Rock, and well, it would make sense to tie our two houses together.”

“And really?” his wife questions.

Ned looks at her and smiles, she knows him so well. “Really, I think it is a terrible idea. Sansa is young and she has grown up in the south yes. But the Lannisters are not known for being nice people. And whether Jaime Lannister is nice or not is not the point, his sister is still there, and I know she will try something.”

“Why do you say that my love?” Catelyn asks.

Ned sighs, unsure of how to explain what he’s thinking, and unsure whether or not what he sees is actually true or not, but decides to go through with it. “I do not think Cersei Lannister ever got over not being Queen. I think she craves the power that comes with the office, and now that her son has shown what he looks like, I think she might try again.”

“You think she will try and put her son on the throne?” Catelyn gasps. “But why?”

“The boy has black hair and blue eyes Cat. Every other one of her children has blond hair and green eyes. She might try and claim that he is a Baratheon. And if she does that, then she might try and use Sansa as bait.” Ned says, knowing it sounds mad, but not willing to put it past Cersei Lannister.

“Do you honestly think she would do something like that?” Cat asks.

Ned sighs and says. “I do not know. But I would not put it past her. And that is what worries me.”

He sees his wife bite her lip, something she does whenever she is nervous and anxious, and he hears her ask. “What will you do?”

“The only thing I can do, write to my father and express my concerns.” Ned says, hoping that he is wrong, but knowing somewhere deep down that he is not.


	12. Young Wolf

****

**5 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Robb Stark**

Robb felt fortunate to have grown up in two different places. Winterfell was and always would be his home, it would be his one day far into the future when his grandfather and father were gone, but for now he was content to see it as something to aspire to. Winterfell was where his mother and his siblings apart from Sansa were, it was a place that held fond childhood memories for him. Memories of swimming in the hot springs, laughing as he learned how to swim, running through the grounds and snow ball fights as the summer snows landed. King’s Landing was where he had grown into a man, a man who knew things he would not have learned in Winterfell. Robb felt he knew how to read people, of course, being the grandson of Lord Rickard Stark he would not have been much of Stark had he not learned that. And of course he had his friendships here, with the King, with Arthur, with Harwyn and many others. He had had loves here as well, Dany was foremost amongst them, but she was a friend now, and gods alone knew what the future would hold. He looked forward to it with eagerness, and as he looked at his friends, gathered as they were in the King’s solar, he knew they did as well.

As was often the case with their group, Robb is the first one to speak. “Florent was an absolute fool at the wedding. What are you going to do with him Your Grace?” Greywind, a direwolf and a nameday gift from his parents’ rests at his feet.

The King looks quite serious as he considers the question. “I think I might well have the man stripped of his lordship and sent into exile. At least that is what I would do, if we did not need Florent.”

Robb quirks an eyebrow at that and asks. “Why do you need Florent? Or rather why do you need the man instead of his son?” Lord Florent was an old and boorish man, not the sort of person one would want in Brightwater Keep, his son seemed far more malleable.

“Because he seems to be the only one who could keep his family in order.” The King responds.

As if to answer the unasked question, Queen Margaery speaks then. “Lord Florent might be a mess of a man, but he is someone the Florents, or rather the wider Florent family can respect. His son does not have that respect. He has not proved himself in the same manner.”

Curious, Robb asks. “And what would he need to do to prove himself to them?” He finds himself thinking of the north and what he might need to do to prove himself worthy of the title.

The Queen seems to hesitate for a moment, and then she replies. “I think he’d need to have more of a backbone then he currently has. At present he seems only too willing to do whatever his father tells him to do. And whilst that is what we are all expected to do, he does not even seek to fight the commands, he merely does it.”

“So you think if he were to become Lord of Brightwater Keep, he would not last very long?” Robb questions.

“Yes.” The King and Queen say in unison. The King looks at his wife, who nods and then the man continues. “Ser Axell might have no children, but he is an ambitious man. Ser Ryam even more so. You can be sure that should Lord Florent die and his son take his place, there will be infighting within the family before the year is over. And that is not something we can afford.”

Robb nods, seeing the sense in that. Then thinking of something he overheard the other day, he says. “I think I can see what you are saying. Especially with Lord Hightower having married a Florent. Do you think the man will stir from the Hightower?” Robb remembers hearing all the whisperings about what could be going on within the Hightower, where Lord Leyton, a giant of man remains shut up for no apparent reason.

The Queen replies then. “I think Lord Leyton is doing something that he deems important. He has not thought to share it with anyone, and so he remains within his tower. I do think he might move from there if asked.”

Robb sees a look exchanged between the King and the Queen and he knows they have done just that. He does not comment on it though, instead he merely nods and says. “The Hightowers will be important for us, when it comes time to deal with the Faith. I still cannot believe that this High Sparrow fellow has disappeared.”

Daenerys speaks then, her voice soft. “Well it is not all that surprising. The attack during the coronation, has no doubt turned many people against him. His puppet Septon has also been removed from the post of authority. He has nothing to do now.”

Robb nods, the news of the High Septon’s death had come earlier that morning, it seemed that the man had died in his sleep, and the rumours have already started. “So long as they do not chose another fool, we should be alright.” Robb replies.

“I would not be so sure of that.” The Queen states. “The old High Septon might’ve been a puppet, but he was one who gave as good as he got. If they choose someone who has no brain, then we are in for a difficult time. The Sparrow will emerge once more; of that you can be certain.”

The King nods, voicing his agreement. “Margaery is right. We cannot allow them to choose someone who would undermine the very thing they seek. We cannot allow the people to think we had something to do with that. It does not help that Viserys brought back a red priestess.”

Seeing the King’s grimace, Robb asks. “You’ve met the woman?” he finds himself wondering how he was not aware of this, there’s hardly anything that occurs within their little circle that they don’t keep one another informed of.

The King nods. “Not of my own volition mind. She just sort appeared when I was here, she wanted to talk about something or the other, and so I listened and then sent her on her way.”

“What was she like?” Robb asks, feeling his curiosity grow.

The King shrugs. “She was strange, ethereal I suppose you could say. She certainly seemed as if she believed in what she was saying.”

“And what was that?” Robb asks.

“That there was a darkness coming, that she would see me again soon.” The King replies.

“Where is she staying now?” he asks.

“Dragonstone. I told Viserys to keep her there. I do not want her here.” The King says simply.

Robb nods seeing the sense in that. “Makes sense, and it ensures that the Faith can’t cause any unnecessary problems. Why did Viserys bring her back?” As far as he knows the Prince is not the sort of person given to flights of religious fancy.

The King shrugs once more and says. “I think they’re sleeping with one another. Truth be told, I don’t much care.” There is a moment of silence and then the King turns to Sansa and asks. “How are you feeling about your betrothal cousin?”

Robb stiffens slightly, it’s not that he doesn’t like Arthur, he does, he sees the boy as if he’s a little brother, but the betrothal had come out of nowhere, especially when he knows, or rather suspects Sansa likes someone else. To her credit, Sansa replies without a hint of bitterness. “I think it will be a good match, and Arthur is a nice lad, he is a friend of mine as well.”

The King nods. “Aye that he is. He will make a good knight and lord when the time comes. Though, I do think he might be back in King’s Landing before long.”

That peaks Robb’s interest and he asks. “Oh? What do you have planned for him Your Grace?”

The King raises one shoulder and lowers it, in a manner that indicates that he knows what he has planned, or has the beginnings of an idea, but is not quite sure what it will entail. “Oh, a little bit of this, and a little bit of that. If he deems himself worthy, he might get more positions within the court, if not, well then he has done nothing wrong.”

His curiosity is peaked further, but Robb knows that the King will not elaborate and so instead he merely nods. Then he says. “You know, I do think that the more time we spend talking about things, the more I think that there is something else going on within the capital.” He does not know what makes him say the thoughts he has had recently, but the words are out there.

Daenerys looks at him curiously and asks. “What do you mean by that?”

Robb thinks for a moment and then replies. “Well it can’t be a coincidence that after the incident during the coronation and then at the wedding, that Lord Sunglass has retired back to his keep. He complains about ill health, but I am not sure I am completely sold on that. The man is devout to the point of stupidity, I am sure he must have done something more. And then there is Florent, we all know the man is a fool, but to be as loud as he was during the wedding, he must have been doing so for a reason.”

“What do you think that reason could have been?” Daenerys asks.

Robb hesitates then, now this is something he is not completely sure about, but he sees the King looking at him intently, and he sees how Daenerys is looking at him in a way she hasn’t looked at him in a long time and he speaks. “I think Florent might have been acting the way he was as a distraction for something or someone. I think they’re planning on doing something, and I think whatever happened regarding the Sparrow’s disappearance has Florent involvement all over it.”

“You think Lord Florent is working with the Sparrow?” Daenerys asks disbelievingly.

Robb holds up his hands and says. “I am not saying he definitely is. All I am saying is that I think he knows more about certain things, than we think he might do. And furthermore, I am saying that Sunglass definitely knows more than he is letting on. I think they need to be looked into.”

Silence follows his response, he half expects the King to dismiss his thoughts out of turn, but instead the King says. “I think you might be onto something here Robb.”

Daenerys looks at the King and asks. “What makes you say that?”

Robb looks at the King intrigued to see what the man will say. His words are calm and measured when he replies. “Sunglass did return to his land under strange circumstances, and Lady Ellaria has since found out that he met with members of the Sparrow’s group to talk about something, what that was we do not know. But he is definitely working with them. As for Florent, well the man is a grasping buffoon who seems to want more than he is owed or deserves. So I would not be surprised if he is working with the Sparrow as well. That figure wants chaos more than anything else.”

Robb nods, glad that the King agrees with him. “I think he and that Baelish fellow are more alike than we might think. Their origins are mysterious, but we know they got to where they are now through the help of their betters. I think Baelish needs to be looked into and dealt with.”

He can see the doubt in the ladies’ eyes, but the King merely nods and says. “I quite agree. I think Baelish will need to answer for certain…shall we say irregularities.”

 


	13. Farwynd

**6 th Month of 298 A.C., Mountains**

**Lord Triston Farwynd**

The north had come to mean a lot to Triston Farwynd, something that he never thought he would actually say. It was a hard and rugged place, but it had become his home. He would have never have thought it, but that was the case now. The thought of leaving behind ragged rocks, and dogged people, and returning to the islands, just did not appeal to him whatsoever. He supposed he had his wife and children to thank for that. His wife was a fiery woman, she was someone he could really relate to, and someone he cared immensely for. Their children were filled with fire as well, though he was worried, worried that the destiny the Grey King, had laid out for Eddard would come to pass, and that his son might never recover from it, when the time came. Though, from what he would need to recover from, Triston was not so sure of, and the Grey King was not answering his queries. Instead the Grey King had told him to come to these mountains just north of Last Hearth, to look for something, something that would be important in the days, and years to come.

That is why he is here, walking through the mist and the darkness, it must be night time, why else would it be so dark? Triston had lost his men, the men who had volunteered to take him up these mountains, to find something, he was not even sure existed. The Grey King had insisted that the thing was here, and yet, whenever Triston tried to speak with him, all he got was silence. A silence so deafening, Triston was convinced that he had finally become mad. He had never told anyone that he heard the Grey King, he did not want anyone to think he was mad, they thought him mad enough already. And so he had said he needed to venture out from their castle, and so here he was. He walked through the pathways, old and abandoned, they had clearly never seen any human contact for years, perhaps even centuries. Triston found himself wondering what could be here, this did not seem like the place, where something for the Grey King should be. If anything, whatever it was the Grey King wanted should have been near the water, for that was where the Grey King was. Still, who was he to question the Grey King? He kept walking, placing one foot in front of the other, determined to find this thing, whatever it might be.

The Mountains were covered with a thick fog, it was almost as if some sort of witch had come and cast their spell. Triston had met a witch once, long ago, when he had been a bairn, no older than Eddard was now. A witch had come from the lands in the Sunset Sea and cast her wears down on Lonely Light and done so many things, that Triston had been captivated. His father had driven the woman from their home though, for what reason, Triston was not sure, but one day the witch had been there, the next she had not. But she had left a lasting impression on Triston, he did not trust witches, and the thought that the mountains were covered with mist now, a mist that reminded him of that witch from so long ago, was frankly unnerving. He steps up the pace, and quickens his stride, determined to find this thing, and go. He does not want to be here for too long. He knows what happens to those who stay on mountains for far too long. It sounds silly now, but it is still a rational fear, at least that is how Triston tries to rationalise it. He is not near his home, he is on Umber land, and the Umbers might be loyal to the Starks, but they hold their own dark secrets, and he has stumbled on more than his fair share of them, since he came onto this mountain.

It must surely be night; he thinks to himself. No sky would ever be that clear and dark, during the day. Not here in the north, where the smell of sulphur and poison is so distinctly lacking. But something about all of this sets his nerves on edge. Triston is not quite sure what it is about this place that does so, but something is wrong, something is gravely wrong, and he cannot figure out what. It is starting to drive him slightly mad, and so he keeps walking. Triston thinks of the object, there was nothing specific in what this thing might have been, but he knows it must be important. There are times when he considers abandoning the Grey King, but then, he thinks to himself, who would he be without the Grey King, his entire family has worshipped the Grey King since there were men on the islands, to abandon him now would be a betrayal. His children do not worship the Grey King, they worship the trees and the Old Gods, but still, he keeps the faith. And he suspects that is why the Grey King’s wrath has not come down upon them.

An ache stirs in his chest as the fog starts to clear, he breathes easier now, knowing that the strangeness seems to be passing, still he knows that they are not out of the woods yet. There is something odd about this whole venture, and he needs to know exactly what that oddness might be. Onward he walks, past bones, and rot, the echoes of the great secret of the Umbers, and their sigil. He walks past the chains that were broken long ago, and the consequences that they are soon to bring. Onward, he walks, and soon enough he comes before a figure, cloaked in stars, with a grey beard and black hair, their eyes are fixed on him, staring at him intently, and Triston thinks he knows the figure, but he is not sure. He thinks to walk past the figure, but then the cloaked figure calls out. “Triston Farwynd, I have been expecting you.”

Triston stops in his tracks, turns and looks at the figure and asks. “How do you know who I am?”

The stranger smiles, revealing pearl white teeth. “I know much and many things my lord. And I know you have come looking for something.”

Warily he asks. “What is it to you?”

The stranger smiles again, revealing more of their teeth. “Oh, the object is everything and more to me. For we serve the same master you and I. So tell me Lord Farwynd, what do you know of what it is you seek?”

Triston is still not sure whether or not he can trust the figure before him. But he decides, this is obviously happening for a reason. “I know that this object is dear to the Grey King. I know that he has looked for it long and hard, but has not found it yet. And I know that he believes that it will bring light back into our world. Before the darkness comes.”

The figure nods seemingly impressed by his explanation, but that for some reason makes him feel quite annoyed, he does not need some stranger’s approval. “Do you know what that darkness might be?”

Feeling irritation at this game they are playing, growing within him, Triston considers telling the stranger where to shove his questions, but instead he merely replies. “The rise of the Storm God and the fire that would snuff out all the light in the world, with its hunger.”

“Ah, so that is what you think is the danger then.” The stranger replies, seemingly losing his opinion of Triston.

Curious, Triston finds himself asking. “What do you mean?”

“Nagga is growing powerful again my lord Farwynd. There is a darkness in men’s hearts, that only Nagga can bring. The Storm God is not the enemy here, in fact Nagga and her father have grown separate in their desire for revenge. No, our master wants the object you seek so that he can stop the rise of the sea dragon he killed so long ago.” The stranger replies.

Confused, Triston asks. “But I thought Nagga was as you said slain. How could she be rising once more?”

The stranger laughs, a strange earthy sound. “Nagga cannot ever truly die. Killed yes, but never killed. There is far too much power for her to die completely. No for her to die, the Grey King needs the object you seek, and he needs more. He will always need more.”

Triston is surprised by this. “What more could he need?”

“The same thing any King needs. He will need an army, an army that is prepared to follow him through the depths to make sure Nagga never raises her head above water.” The stranger replies.

His curiosity is getting the better of him now, and so he asks. “Do you know what this object is that the Grey King seeks?”

The stranger is silent for a moment, as if contemplating his question, and as the silence grows longer, as it stretches out into an infinite presence, Triston begins to shift restlessly, he needs to find this object and then leave this place. He cannot remain here for too long, for if he does, he thinks the Umbers will definitely find him, and everything will be for naught. Eventually, the figure speaks, their voice calm, but also surprisingly loud. “Do I know what this object is? In a manner of speaking I suppose I do.”

“Be more precise. Speak not in riddles.” Triston snaps, his nerves making him more irritable.

That only causes the figure before him to smile. The smile grows, until it disappears, and is replaced by a darkness, that makes Triston stand in shock. He sees a figure before him, a figure he has only heard about before in his dreams. A figure who died so long ago. The figure looks at him and then whispers. “I have known about it this whole time. But the question is Lord Farwynd do you? Do you truly know what it is you seek?”

“An object to bring peace back to the world.” Triston replies, almost as if in a daze.

The figure laughs, and black liquid comes out of its mouth. “Oh come now, enough of this childish naiveté my lord. You heard the stories as a child, I know you did. You heard the stories, I made sure you heard the stories. The Grey King is not someone who will bring peace back to Westeros, he will bring only chaos and destruction. And that is not something you want.”

Old memories begin to stir inside of him, the fears he had as a child, the fears his mother had, but then he shakes his head and says angrily. “You lie. You always lie. It is in your nature.”

The stranger laughs, a taunting sound, one that makes Triston’s ears hurt. “Come now, Lord Farwynd. Let us not play games here, you know I speak the truth. You know that somewhere the Grey King is seeking something that is not his to claim.”

“Do you want it then?” Triston asks, desperately trying to think and fight at the same time.

“Want it?” the figure asks. “Why, I already have it.” the figure pulls something out of their cloak, and Triston sees a horn with runes on it, the horn is golden and black, a man’s face pressed onto it, just as there is a woman’s face. The stranger looks at him and says. “You can have it, but you need to say my name. Say my name and it is yours to do with as you please.”

Triston stares at the figure before him, seeing the grey, and the long reeds of hair on their face, and he sees the iron before him. He feels fear flow through him. “Urras Greyiron. The oldest son of the Grey King. You are here?”

“Yes.” Greyiron replies. “And the time is coming.” The figure disappears, and Triston grabs the horn before it falls to the ground, he stares at it and then laughs.


	14. Old Wolf

**6 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Rickard Stark**

Rickard had seen a lot during his life, he had seen great dynasties rise and fall, he had watched old lions have their mane shaved before their life was taken from then, and he had seen suns of ash and fire burn the sky, to be replaced by ice. It was a strange thing, when he thought about it. When he thought about just where he had come from. He had known his father for barely long enough to forge memories and connections, but he remembered the fear and terror that his father had inspired, the dark deeds he had done, and Rickard had sworn to erase them from memory. To some extent he had been successful, in other cases perhaps not. Ned and he might never see one another again, not until the next life at least, but so long as his son was whole and happy, that was all that mattered to him now. The planning had worked to some extent. The King was married, the marriage had gone off reasonably well without a problem, the bride was someone who seemed to love the King, and the Tyrells were powerful, powerful enough for Rickard to look at them and wonder. But not powerful enough that they could remove him if they wanted to. Indeed, the Tyrells realised they owed their new station to him and so they had agreed to meet with him, in the Tower of the Hand.

Mace Tyrell had once been a strong and healthy man, but like his father before him, he had turned to fat in the years since the wars had ended. Lord Tyrell was a scheming man, but he did not have much skill, not like his father had, or as his mother did, but he was still an important figure, and one Rickard knew would serve the King well in the time to come. Lady Olenna, was a different kettle of fish entirely. She was strong, proud and determined. A sharp mind was her gift, and Rickard fully intended to use it. Stopping his musings, he offers them both cups of wine, which they take gratefully, and then he speaks. “My lord, my lady, I thank you both for coming. I know that there are a thousand and one different things that need doing now, since the wedding, but I promise you that this conversation we are going to have will satisfy a lot of your queries.” Rickard pauses, giving them both time to digest his words, as expected, Mace Tyrell speaks.

“Thank you for inviting us here to meet with you my lord hand. After all the years of planning and preparation, it is a good thing to see our three houses finally united in marriage. The wedding was a most glorious thing.” Tyrell says, his chest puffing out with pride as he speaks.

Rickard nods. “Of course my lord. The wedding was a most fantastic event, that the troubles we had faced before, were not there, was of course a blessing. So now the main issue I seek to discuss, first and foremost, is the issue of the dowry.” He pauses a moment and then continues. “We had agreed on a payment of one million gold dragons had we not?”

It is a sign of Tyrell arrogance he thinks, that the man merely nods and says. “Yes, yes it was. The payment is coming on its way now. I have entrusted my sons to carry the documents and titles with them from Highgarden. They should be arriving any day now.”

Rickard nods, noticing how Olenna Tyrell has thus far remained silent, and wondering why that might be. “Tell me my lord, why was it that you had to send your sons to get the deeds and titles, and did not think to bring them with you when you came here?”

He sees Tyrell shift uncomfortably on his chair, and he suspects he knows the reason for it. His suspicions are confirmed when Lady Olenna speaks, her voice high and raspy. “I had told him not to bring the deeds and titles with him straight away, my lord hand. You would forgive an old woman for being cautious I would hope. With all the issues we are now hearing about, it would seem a fair thing would it not?”

Rickard smiles at Lady Olenna and replies. “You are no more an old woman than I am a member of the Faith, my lady. But yes, I do understand the concerns that one might have considering certain events. Though, you need not have worried. I had the deeds and titles drawn up long before the marriage. I merely wanted to know why you had not thought to bring your versions of them.”

Lord Tyrell seems completely surprised by this, and it shows in the way his jaw has slackened. Yet his mother, merely smiles and replies. “Well now you know my lord hand.” The woman pauses, and then she asks. “What else did you wish to speak about my lord hand? Surely the deeds and titles were not the only thing? Unless of course you are becoming an old woman, in your dotage.”

“Mother!” Lord Tyrell protests.

Rickard laughs, and waves a hand dismissively. “You are quite right my lady. I did not simply want to talk to you about the deeds and titles.” He pauses and then says. “As I am sure you are aware, the Faith has now chosen a New High Septon, a man who is relatively unknown, and someone who might not have any of the agendas past High Septons have had. Though from what I know, he was a believer in the Causterian movement before it disappeared. What I want to know, is where do you stand on such issues.”

“My Lord Hand?” Tyrell asks sounding confused.

“What he wants to know is whether we support this sparrow twit, or whether we support the more enlightened treacle of these Causterian fellows dear.” Lady Olenna replies.

Rickard hides a smirk behind his wine cup, as he sees comprehension and something akin to horror dawn on Lord Tyrell’s face. “Ah. I see.” Tyrell states. The man takes a moment, as if to compose himself, then he continues. “Well my lord hand, as you can tell, I was raised with some of the more traditional elements of the faith. I do not respect the Sparrow, I believe what he did to deal with High Septon Maegor, and what he did during the coronation was despicable. However, there are elements of the Causterian belief that I do not agree with. I think a middle way might be more applicable and satisfying for all.”

Rickard nods, the man makes sense, even if his words sound more like his mother’s than his own. “I see, and do you believe that this new High Septon is someone who might be able to reach this middle way?”

Again, there is a moment of silence, as Tyrell seems to consider his options, whilst his mother sits there silently, twiddling her thumbs, but no doubt waiting to see if her son will say what she told him to say. Eventually, the silence is broken and Tyrell speaks. “I believe so my lord hand. I believe that this new High Septon is a chance for the crown and the faith to work together, to stop any rifts from appearing in the realm.”

Rickard merely nods, he has his own thoughts on this new High Septon, but they are his own, for now at least. Instead, he turns to Lady Olenna and asks her. “So my lady, what do you make of King’s Landing then? Do you believe it still stinks?” He makes the comment, remembering something the lady had said to him when they were both much younger.

The lady seemingly remembers, for she smiles and replies. “Yes, King’s Landing is a cesspool of intrigue and poverty all mixed into one. Except this time, it smells of Wolves and dragons, not merely dead trees.”

The Lady’s son looks completely confused by this turn of conversation, but does not say anything, instead Rickard continues. “And do you believe; the roses can prosper in such a place?”

Lady Olenna smiles. “I believe we can, after all, there is not one thing that we cannot achieve, if we work in a team.”

Rickard smiles at this, and then turns to Lord Tyrell and says. “I would expect that with the growing tensions in Essos, Lord Redwyne will have his fleet prowling the seas, making sure nothing goes amiss.”

Tyrell looks surprised by this change in conversation but he nods. “Yes, of course my lord hand. Lord Redwyne will do as he is commanded.”

“Very good.” Rickard replies, he deliberately pauses then, as if thinking, but in reality, he is giving time for everything to sink in. When he feels that enough time has passed he speaks again. “And what of the Hightowers?”

“What of the Hightowers?” Tyrell asks suddenly, and from the way his face changes, Rickard knows he wasn’t supposed to ask that question.

“Lord Hightower has not moved from his tower in a decade, so the rumours go. His sons treat Oldtown as if they are preparing for some sort of war. And his daughters are everywhere and nowhere within the Reach. I want to know one thing, and one thing only. What is Lord Leyton doing in that tower of his?” Rickard asks.

He sees Tyrell and the man’s mother look at one another shiftily, he sees the way Tyrell twiddles his thumbs, and he starts to suspect, neither of them know exactly what is going on in Oldtown either. Tyrell speaks hesitatingly. “I…from what I have gathered….my lord hand… it seems that Lord Leyton has simply spent a lot of time reading books from the citadel and going over one or two things with his daughter. His son Baelor, does most of the day to day running of Hightower and Oldtown, and I think the people there are content with that.”

“And the fact that his sons seem to be preparing for some sort of war?” Rickard asks, fully knowing what it is they are preparing for, but wanting to see how much the Tyrells know.

Tyrell shifts slightly in his seat, and then says. “I know nothing of any war planning my lord hand.”

Rickard hides his laughter, behind a calm expression. He sees the way Lady Olenna shifts about nervously, or what he perceives to be nervously, and he suspects that the two people before him know a great deal more than they are letting on. “I see. So you would not know whether or not the Hightowers are constructing a war fleet, or if they are intending on doing anything to the Starry Sept?”

“The Starry Sept? Heavens above no!” Lord Tyrell exclaims suddenly.

Rickard quirks an eyebrow at the man’s sudden words, and is content to see the man blush slightly as he realises what he’s said. Lady Olenna speaks then. “I might have little love for the Faith my lord hand, but even I know that the Hightowers would never think to attack the Starry Sept. The place relies on their charitable donations to continue running, and as such, is theirs. Attacking it would not serve them any purpose, but to anger their citizenry.”

“And if there was rot inside the Starry Sept? If there was someone inside the Starry Sept who might threaten to undo the hard work that someone such as Lord Leyton has strived for his entire life, what then?” Rickard asks, already knowing the answer.

Another look is exchanged by Lord Mace and his lady mother, a look that suggests fear and something else, something deeper and darker, something that makes him wonder what is going on inside the Tyrell camp. Eventually, Lord Mace speaks. “If that were the case, then it would mean war.”

Rickard nods and says. “And now you know why Florent was sent here.”

 


	15. Young Rose

**7 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Queen Margaery Targaryen**

Being a Queen was an interesting experience. People expected a lot more from a Queen than they did a noble lady. Margaery was expected to remember dozens of names and faces, organise a household much larger than anything at Highgarden, and then there was the politicking. There was a lot of it, some members of the court did not like that a Tyrell was Queen, seeing her as little more than an upstart, so she had done her part to prove them wrong. That Jonothor was at her side, and was supportive, was a benefit, and she truly appreciated him and what he must have had to go through growing up as the King. All of this was making them closer, and the fact that she had missed her moon blood for the second moon in a row made her hope that perhaps, she was with child. She wasn’t going to say anything yet, not until she knew for sure, but the hope was there.

Just now though, she and her husband, accompanied by three of the Kingsguard were riding through the Kingswood. An afternoon away from court, and a chance to catch their breath. The Kingswood was a lovely place, quiet, and secluded, it was the King’s personal wood, where he could go and rest, get away from the noise of court. There were all sorts of animals around, deer, elk, wolves, birds, foxes, and rabbits. Her husband had a direwolf, who he had named Ghost for how silent he was. And as they rode through the wood, Margaery could not help, but think of how appropriate that name was. Ghost did not make a single sound as he bounded through the wood, past the trees. She looks at her husband, and he nods, raising his fist and drawing their party to a halt. She stops her horse and dismounts, landing smoothly on her feet. Jonothor takes her hand and asks. “Is here alright Margaery?”

Margaery looks around at their surroundings, the green of the trees, the red of the leaves, the calmness of the wood and she nods. “Perfect Jonothor.” And so they walk a few short paces towards one of the trees before placing a mat down on the ground and sitting on it. A servant comes then, handing them a basket filled with food, as they take the food out, Margaery speaks. “Lady Sinestra came to seem me yesterday evening.”

“Oh?” her husband replies sounding surprised. “What about?”

“It seems that one of the maidens working in the charity on the Street of Steel has grown lazy, and is suspected of doing something with one of the blacksmiths.” Margaery says, stifling a giggle behind a piece of bread. Lady Sinestra is one of those old fashioned ladies, who seemed to have taken their Septa’s lessons directly to hear. “It seems, that Lady Sinestra had this maiden followed, and saw the maiden and her blacksmith cavorting during work hours.”

Her husband looks at her, a cheeky grin on his face, no doubt remembering what they sometimes do during work hours. “And I suppose Lady Sinestra wants you to have this maiden removed from the charity then?”

Margaery nods. “Yes. She thinks keeping such a lady around would damage the reputation of the charity. Despite the fact that this lady does more good to the charity than Sinestra does.”

“What sort of work does she do?” her husband asks, handing her a cup of wine.

Margaery takes a sip of wine then replies. “She helps manage the accounts for the charity, keeping a record of how many donations we receive each day, and then taking into account the cost of keeping the building running. Sinestra just sits there, scaring everyone.”

Jonothor laughs. “If Sinestra is so bad, why don’t you just get rid of her then?”

Margaery takes another sip of wine and sighs. “I wish it were that easy. Sinestra has ties to a lot of the families within King’s Landing. Her husband’s brother works as the Chief Constable in the inner streets. I get rid of her, I have no doubt they will try something.”

“You are the Queen, Marg, what could they possibly do to you?” her husband asks curiously.

Margaery sighs. “It’s not what they would do to me that I am worried about. It’s what they might do to this charity and others. Sinestra has helped bring people to the charities to work, and to get help. I remove her, she might well threaten those people to leave or suffer.”

“Then she will suffer.” Her husband replies simply.

Margaery smiles, and leans over to kiss her husband’s lips briefly. “I knew I could count on you.” She jests lightly.

Her husband smiles and says. “I’d do anything to help you, you know that don’t you?”

Margaery thinks of all the times her husband helped her when they were children growing up, all the tight spots he got her out of with her mother or grandmother, and she smiles. “I know.”

She watches as her husband takes a sip of wine and then a bite out of a roll, then he asks. “How are the rest of your charities coming along?”

“They are coming along well,” Margaery replies happily. “The Shelter has helped put away several brothel owners who were abusing their power. And has helped those former mistresses find new work elsewhere within the city. We’ve also managed to find temporary housing for several dozen orphans and homeless workers.”

Her husband smiles, and Margaery feels a thrill run through her stomach. “That’s great Marg. Really that is wonderful. It shows that we truly are making a difference, and that you really are making a difference.” Her husband pauses for a moment, then continues. “If you need me to help with anything, please do let me know.”

Margaery takes her husband’s hand and squeezes. “Thank you, and I will.” An easy silence falls over them then, as they eat and drink, Margaery looks around them, seeing the Kingsguard standing in silence at the front and back of their little outing, whilst a few servants move around, taking food and dishes. It is peaceful, truly peaceful she thinks, and she wonders if other royal couples ever did something like this.

The silence is broken by her husband; whose voice is soft amongst the whistling of the wind. “I spoke with my grandfather this morning about Lord Florent.” Margaery perks up then, listening intently as her husband goes on. “I think we’ve found out a particular use for the man.”

Margaery looks at her husband and she can tell that whatever use this might be, it is not something her husband approves of. “What might his use be?” she questions.

Her husband seems to consider his response for a brief moment before he replies. “He will be used to get closer to the new High Septon. The man is a close relation of Florent through his mother, or mother’s brother I believe, and as such I think it would be most useful to get the man in. His main reasoning for causing such outcry at the wedding, was his supposed feeling of lack of involvement with the running of the kingdoms.”

Margaery snorts. “Do you believe such nonsense?”

“Of course not.” Her husband replies dismissively. “But it does us no harm to keep the man onside for some time. Before we have found a suitable replacement for him.”

That peaks her interest. “What do you mean suitable replacement? Are you thinking of setting up a situation for the Florents to fall?”

Her husband nods. “That house is riven by internal divisions, as you have rightly pointed out. Furthermore, Lady Ellaria believes that one side of the house is supporting those fools who follow the Sparrow, whilst another half is supporting a movement long thought dead.”

Margaery does not need to ask what movement that is, she can see the answer in her husband’s eyes. “And do you think there will be enough traps set in their path, for them to fall into them?”

Jonothor nods, he looks at their still joined hands and replies. “I think we’ve gotten more than enough. The Tarlys are looking at advancing their power within the Reach, The Rowans are arguing over border disputes with the Florents, and Colin Florent is a fool who has angered more than enough nobles with his displays here to warrant being thrown into the black cells.”

Margaery laughs at that, remembering the sight of a drunk Colin Florent stumbling from one place to another a few days ago, he’d done something or said something to Prince Viserys that had ended with Colin having a black eye and a bruised ego for a long time. “Where has Ser Colin disappeared to? I have not seen him since, Prince Viserys gave him that black eye.”

“He is heading off on a mission for me. I am sending him off to find out more about the Sparrow.” Her husband replies.

“Is that wise Jonothor? Knowing what we do about Ser Colin and his propensity for drinking and talking whilst drunk, do you not think he might give the whole thing away?” Margaery asks.

Her husband smiles a devious smile. “He has been given reason not to give anything away. And I have sent men along with him who will remind him what will happen to him, should he touch a drop of alcohol.” Margaery can imagine just what sort of things her husband might have done to Ser Colin should he touch a wine flask, and so she nods. She’s not sure why, but she feels the urge to kiss her husband then, and so she does, she leans forward and presses her lips to his and when he responds positively, she deepens the kiss. Soon enough, the food is forgotten as is the wine, and they are kissing one another like their lives depend on it. It ends when she pulls away gasping for air, she moves off her husband and sits up, smirking at the obvious arousal he feels. “Well that was nice.” Her husband japes, pulling her flush against him, so that she can feel his arousal against her back.

“I’m glad you think so my King.” Margaery quips.

She shivers with delight when she feels her husband’s breath against her neck. “I’m going to do all sorts of things to you when we get back to our chambers, my lady.”

“What sort of things?” she asks, rubbing herself against him, causing him to growl.

“All sorts.” Her husband replies. He starts kissing her neck then, up and down, trailing a pattern across her skin, causing her to moan with pleasure. She moves against him, and he growls, and for a moment she wonders what the servants and the Kingsguard must think, but then she thinks to herself, that she doesn’t care.

Their fun is interrupted when one of the white knights’ coughs, still sitting in her husband’s lap, Margaery calls out. “What is it good Sers?”

Ser Gerold’s strong voice sounds from somewhere nearby. “A messenger has come Your Graces, from the Red Keep. He says that it is urgent.”

“Send them here.” Her husband replies, his voice straining a little as she moves against him.

The messenger appears before them, dressed in the red and black of her husband’s house. The boy, for that is what he is looks flustered. He bows before them and then says. “Your Graces, Lord Rickard has sent me here to tell you that word has come from Dragonstone.”

Her husband perks up at that. “Did he say what?”

The messenger shakes his head. “Only that it was important.”

Margaery turns and looks at her husband inquisitively, and hears him whisper. “It must be the books I sent for.” She smiles then, thinking about those books, and the power they hold, the secrets they have kept, and the way to bring down the red whore.


	16. Dinner

**7 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

The dining chamber of his personal rooms smelled heavenly, that was a blasphemous thought no doubt, but Jonothor did not care. It was true, the chicken smelt divine, and the gravy, gods the gravy was amazing. For as long as he could remember, he’d had family dinners every final day of the week, it was something his grandfather had insisted on, in order to ensure the loyalty of his aunt and uncle, and he was glad for it. It was a time for them to relax, in the hidden room, away from court, just them, and the Kingsguard, no one else. Jonothor sat with his wife to his right, his uncle to his left, and his aunt to his uncle’s right hand side. They were all dressed in red and black, and the atmosphere was calm, after a hard day at court, this was exactly what he needed. Taking a sip of wine, he looks at his uncle and says. “You were right you know, about Ser Colin, the man does not have the wits the gods gave a rat.”

Jonothor sees his uncle laugh then. “I did tell you Jon, the man has so much hate for his family, but not enough sense to keep his other less valid tendencies behind closed doors. He will make the perfect bait for the fool in the Great Sept.”

Here, Margaery speaks, voicing a concern, Jonothor knows she’s had for some time. “But is that a certainty? This High Septon is known for his rigidity, and for being tied to the Sparrow. Would he indulge someone such as Ser Colin, a known lout and womanizer?”

Jonothor sees something akin to annoyance flash over his uncle’s face, he knows that Viserys adheres to the Blood of the Dragon rhetoric of old, and does not quite agree with having Margaery as Queen. Still, his voice is polite when he responds. “I see where you are coming from Your Grace, but I truly believe, that our best opportunity for controlling the faith will come from Ser Colin. As we all know, the High Septon is the man’s uncle, and we all know these Florents, there is nothing they value half as much as they do their family. The Septon will listen to him, bleat on about this and the other, and a return to common sense can begin.”

“And if it does not?” Margaery asks, Jonothor squeezes her hand under the table, warning her. If Viserys thinks that she is questioning his sense, it will not matter that she is his wife, and Queen, she is not a dragon by birth.

Luckily, Viserys merely smiles and says. “If Ser Colin fails, then I will personally see to it that he never makes it out alive.” There is an ominous pause then, as they all digest that piece of information, then Viserys continues. “I’ve had word from Renly, Jonothor, it seems that the Sparrows are trying to gain more ground within the Stormlands, using their connections to Robert Baratheon.”

Jonothor looks at his uncle, and asks. “What connections precisely? I had thought Baratheon’s bastards had been dealt with?” It had not been a pleasant thing to learn, but Jonothor had seen the necessity in dealing with the bastard girl and the other one.

Viserys sighs then. “Renly says they’re claiming that they have proof that Baratheon had a legitimate child before his death, and that this child is their prophesied saviour. Despite Renly’s best efforts, the claim is gaining ground within certain parts of the Stormlands. After all there are those who remember Robert Baratheon with grave fondness.”

“But why would they? Baratheon dragged them into war, and then tried to spend his energies fighting for something that was not his. Furthermore, his brother Stannis kept trying as well. Why do they remember him so fondly?” Daenerys asks speaking for the first time.

Margaery speaks then, gauging the reasoning for this. “Robert Baratheon has the advantage of having died young. People remember him in a tragic light, and now that these troubles are happening, people are trying to play on those memories, and tell people that had the Baratheons taken the throne, there would be none of this trouble.”

“But that is blatantly not true. No one knows how Robert Baratheon would have been as King, because he died before he could start ruling. What they are doing is nonsensical, surely no one is actually believing this nonsense?” Daenerys asks sounding out raged.

Jonothor looks at his aunt, and finds it surprising that she is so naïve, she is only a year younger than him, and yet there seems to be an innocence to her that court has not removed. In a sense he envies her, in another, he pities her. “Ah but that’s the thing, because he died so young, people can speculate, and as they speculate, they paint a picture that benefits them. The High Septon Maegor died, murdered in the Great Sept, people will say that would never have happened under Baratheon, Jon Arryn died, and we all know he did not support the Causterian movement, that is another thing against me. So now, they have a possible chance to revert all the good things I’ve done.” Jonothor pauses and then looks at his uncle. “What exactly has Renly done about this?”

Viserys looks slightly surprised at the directness of the question, but still replies all the same. “He’s been planting his own men within the taverns and holds where this talk has been happening. Has had his men questioning those who would spread false rumours, as well as planting a few of his own. So far it seems there has been some success, but there are holdouts. Wensington seems to be buying into this whole thing, as do the Boilings and others aligned with them.”

Jonothor feels anger flow through him at that, he remembers the Wensingtons and the trial that saw the man’s daughter dealt with for her treason. His words are bitter when he replies. “Of course they do. Send word to Renly, tell him to pay a visit to Wensington, remind him of what he has to lose.”

Jonothor sees his uncle smile at that and feels a shiver run through him, something about that whole thing has never sat right with him. Deciding to turn the focus elsewhere, he looks at Daenerys and asks her. “And what of you Dany? I hear someone has been courting you? Is it true?” He sees a strange look cross his uncle’s face, but then the expression disappears, and he’s left wondering at that.

To her credit, his aunt, does not blush, but instead replies. “A lady never tells Jon.”

“Not even to her King?” he asks playfully.

“Especially to her King.” She replies jokingly.

Jonothor looks at his cousin and then asks softly. “But seriously Dany, who is the man? I need to know to make sure he is worthy of you.”

Dany hesitates for a moment, Jonothor can see the unwillingness for her to talk about this before him, and it makes him curious, she has never been like this before. Eventually she says. “Erron Hightower, Ser Baelor’s heir.”

“Ah I see.” Jonothor says simply.

Margaery however says. “I knew it. I knew he was interested in you Dany. That’s really good. Erron is a good man, and kind. How have you found him?”

Jonothor gets the feeling that his wife might have had a hand in setting up her cousin on his courting mission with Daenerys, but decides to remain silent on that matter for now, and instead listen to what Daenerys has to say about the man herself. She blushes slightly under the attention he sees, but her voice is soft and filled with praise. “Oh, he is so kind and sweet. And funny as well. He is a lovely man.”

Whilst his wife and aunt move to sit with one another and talk about the merits of Erron Hightower, Jonothor turns to his uncle and asks. “So this Lady Melisandre you brought back with you, where is she from, and how did she catch your notice?”

His uncle smiles. “I met her in Volantis, where she was preaching something or the other, to the girl I was sleeping with. She seemed interesting and so I decided to bring her back with me. That she’s good in bed isn’t so bad either. As to where she is from, Asshai, that is what she has told me.”

“But you do not believe her?” Jonothor guesses.

His uncle nods. “She seems to be younger than someone from Asshai could reasonably expect to be, given their lack of children. And she never takes of that damned ruby on her throat. So I reason, she is from somewhere else.”

“And you do not think her presence in Westeros could be potentially harmful to us. Because of recent troubles?” Jonothor asks, trying to keep his annoyance out of his voice.

His uncle laughs, takes a sip of wine and replies. “She’s someone I fuck, Jonothor, she has no power over me. And she won’t come to court. I won’t allow it.”

“So why did you bring her here?” Jonothor asks, he knows that his uncle would’ve brought her back to Westeros for a reason, but the finding out of that reason, will be a challenge, of that he has no doubt.

His uncle, looks at him over the rim of his cup and whispers. “Because she was fun, and I needed a bit of fun. Travelling was great, but I needed some more fun. And besides, there are things she can do, that well, I’ve not seen anyone else do.”

Intrigued, Jonothor asks. “What do you mean?”

His uncle takes a sip of wine and then responds. “She can do things with her hands, amazing things.” That is all he says though, for he puts his cup down and winks.

Before Jonothor can ask him what he means, Daenerys speaks aloud. “Do you think they will try to come for the Red Keep?

The question is so sudden, Jonothor feels thrown by it. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“Well, they tried to come for the Keep during your coronation, do you think they will try again?” Dany asks, a slight tremor in her voice.

Jonothor hesitates, uncertain of how to respond. He needs to know what has prompted his aunt’s concern before he can truly reply, and so he asks. “What makes you ask that Dany? When they tried to come for the Red Keep the first time they were destroyed. The Sparrow has gone into hiding, and has not come out again.”

“I know, it’s just that, something seems so strange about all of this. A High Septon is chosen, who has ties to the Florents, Lord Florent has been very vocal about his problems with the crown, and now Ser Colin is going to be used to get close to the High Septon. Do you not think there is something deeper going on here? The Florents have been very vocal recently, whereas for years they were quiet and content to sit in Brightwater Keep and do nothing. Why have they suddenly come out of the shadows now, when some of their family are within the Red Keep?” Dany asks in response.

Jonothor muses over his aunt’s thoughts, and has to admit that she raises a valid point. These troubles might have brewing since Septon Maegor was chosen as High Septon all those years ago, but they only exploded when the Florents came to court. He does not know quite what to say, and so is grateful when his wife intercedes. “If the Florents are behind this, they are leaving a trail as large as the Wall itself for someone to follow. I do not think that they are the ones behind this, nor do I think someone will attack the Red Keep again. It did not work the first time.”


	17. Treachery

****

**8 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Rickard Stark**

King’s Landing was growing more and more foul by the day, as he grew older, Rickard Stark found that the desire for intrigue that had been there in his younger days was fading. He wanted to return to Winterfell, to see his home just once before he died, to repair things with Ned, but he suspected he would not get that chance. There was much and more that needed to be done in King’s Landing alongside his grandson, before he could truly retire from the world. His grandson was growing up, and for that Rickard was happy, the plan involving Colin Florent was a master stroke, one that Rickard was happy had come from his grandson. The Florents were definitely toeing a line, but how far they were going to go, Rickard did not know, and that was what worried him. He could handle numerous things, but uncertainty, that was something he did not like, yet nothing his spies, nor Lady Ellaria had found could be used, or counted as useful, and so the Florents survived for another day. For now, Petyr Baelish was before him and that was the issue at hand.

Rickard looks at Petyr Baelish, remembering the stories he had heard about the boy, remembering Brandon’s story about the fool, who had dared challenge him to a duel. Before him, he sees not a threat, but someone worthy of curiosity. He takes a sip of wine and then gesturing at his grandson says. “I hope you do not mind that I have asked my grandson Robb to sit in on our talk, I feel it prudent that he learn a thing or two about ruling.”

Petyr Baelish takes one look at Robb, who by all accounts is his father’s son, apart from the auburn hair and blue eyes, and says. “It is perfectly fine by me, my Lord Hand.” The man takes a sip of his wine, and then calmly asks. “So what might I be able to help you with?”

Rickard considers the man before him, he has done his reading on Baelish, learning about how he came to foster at Riverrun, how he grew in favour with the Tully girls, about his rise under Jon Arryn, thanks to Lady Lysa, and so he finds himself asking. “Tell me, my Lord Baelish, you spend considerable time with Lord Jon before his death, what did he do, in those final days?” The mystery of Jon Arryn’s murder is one that continues to bother him, the man had died far too soon.

Petyr Baelish takes a moment before responding, his eyes beady and determined. His voice calm, as he replies. “Lord Jon, spent a fair amount of time talking with his wife, the Lady Lysa, and with his son Ser Jasper, meeting with them both, discussing the Vale. From what I recall, there was talk of sending Ser Jasper back to the Vale, to prepare him for something or the other. Furthermore, he also visited the former High Septon as well, to discuss things.”

 _You are being deliberately vague Baelish, tell it true now._ Rickard thinks to himself, aloud, he merely smiles, before asking. “I see, and do you know what precisely it was that Lord Jon was discussing with the former High Septon?”

Baelish makes a great show of contrition. “Unfortunately not my Lord Hand. I was not at these meetings, I was only sent as a messenger, to help arrange meetings, nothing more.”

Though he nods in acceptance of this, Rickard can tell the man is lying, as to why he is lying, that is something, Rickard will have to find out for himself.  Deciding to change focus, he instead asks. “Tell me my lord, how did you come to Lord Jon’s attention?”

Something about the question unsettles Baelish, for he moves slightly in his chair, before schooling himself into an expression of nonchalance, his voice is calm, when he replies. “I knew his lady wife, when we were children, but it was my work in Gulltown, working to sort out the debts and the collections of money and taxes that truly got me noticed by Lord Arryn. I spent a fair bit of time working on a system, to ensure fair and true collections, as well as to ensure that nothing slipped through the net of the system. Lord Arryn was quite happy with this system and asked me to come to King’s Landing, to aid him.”

 _Interesting, a money collector, serving the old falcon, what game were you playing Jon?_ “I see. It must have been quite the change, coming from a rather money oriented background, to then serving the Hand of the King, and dealing with words instead of numbers. How did you handle that change?” Rickard asks.

Baelish gives him a smile, one that Rickard thinks is his attempt at easing nerves. “It was quite the change, my Lord Hand, but I feel as if I handled it well. It was interesting, and a fulfilling change to make, on that prevented me from remaining stagnant in growth. And it was a change I quite enjoyed.”

“And what precisely was it that you did for Jon Arryn?” Rickard asks directly.

Here Baelish shifts once more, the edge of his confidence shaken by the directness of the question. “I helped compile his records of meetings, as well as arrange meetings with various people. I served as an aid, and a keeper of accounts if you will. I helped manage the spending of his household, and recommended changes where I thought they were necessary.”

“Quite the responsibility for someone from a minor house in the Fingers.” Rickard comments, noting with some pleasure, the flash of anger that passes through Baelish’s eyes at the comment.

“Indeed, though, one that was given on merit.” Baelish replies, with something of a sting to his words.

Rickard raises his cup in acknowledgement, taking a sip, allowing a silence to settle over them briefly, before moving onto his next topic. “Tell me Lord Baelish, have you had many dealings with the Florents?”

“Nothing beyond the usual court procedures my lord Hand.” Baelish responds guardedly.

 _Liar, you lie worse than Ned ever did._ “I see.” Rickard responds. He pauses for a moment, and then asks. “Tell me my lord, how do you think Jon Arryn died?”

Petyr Baelish looks completely stumped by the question, his hands shifting on his lap, though his eyes remain calm, Rickard senses that something might be coming from this, and sits eagerly in his seat, though his eyes remain neutral. Eventually Baelish replies. “I do believe he was poisoned my Lord Hand.”

Rickard nods, he had not expected any other sort of answer, Ebrose had made the judgement shortly after seeing the body, and it had become common knowledge throughout the capital. But, there was something in Baelish’s tone that makes Rickard ask. “Do you think you know, who might have done such a thing?”

Baelish looks at him as if to accuse him, but the words that come out of his mouth are completely different, and are surprising. “I think, my Lord Hand, that it was the work of the Faith.”

“And why do you think that?” Rickard asks, curious now, more than anything.

“I think that they did it because, they saw Lord Jon as a traitor. In accepting the Causterian regime in the Sept of Baelor, Jon Arryn was officially turning his back on the traditional faith, and all that it stood for. The Arryns have always been seen as the paragons of the Faith, and in doing this, he was abandoning that principle. It is no secret that the Vale has been reluctant to adapt certain practices that High Septon Maegor had initiated.” Baelish points out.

“Whilst you make some very valid points my Lord, how would the Faith, or those elements of the Faith that were opposed to Lord Jon, get their men or women into the Tower of the Hand, in order to sneak such a poison in?” Rickard asks, knowing full well the implication of his words.

Baelish it appears, is either unaware of the implication, or simply does not care. “They had allies within the household. I had warned Lord Arryn about this, but he had dismissed my concerns, stating that no member of the Faith would ever think to harm an Arryn, their only link into the court. He was gravely mistaken.” Baelish makes a grave show of remorse at that, though Rickard does not truly buy it, there is something more here.

“And how have Lady Lysa, and her son handled Lord Jon’s death?” Rickard asks, he had not seen either one since he had assumed the Handship, indeed, the Arryns seemed to have not left their manor on the Street of Falcons.

Baelish grimaces at this, though whether or not that is feigned or not, Rickard does not know. “They are handling it as well as they can my lord Hand. Lady Lysa is deep in grief, whilst Lord Jasper has been comforted by the King’s reassurance and guidance. Though I think both of them wish to return home.”

Rickard nods. “Of course, indeed I am surprised neither of them have ventured to return home sooner. I had heard that Lord Jasper had returned to the Vale, and yet now we all know he has not. I wonder, why might that be?”

Baelish shifts slightly, and Rickard gets a feeling that there is something playing on the younger man’s mind. “As to that my Lord Hand, I do not know.”

Rickard nods, sensing that nothing more will come from this conversation. “Very well my Lord Baelish. If there is nothing else, you may leave. Though, tell Lady Lysa that she is free to leave for the Vale whenever she wishes.”

Baelish stands and nods, before leaving the room. The moment he is gone, and Rickard is confident the man is not going to be eavesdropping, he turns to Robb and says. “Now that, is how you lie to the second most powerful man in the realm.”

His grandson sounds stunned, when he replies. “You think all he was saying was a lie grandfather?”

Rickard looks at his grandson and sees a mixture of Ned and Brandon in the boy, sighing he says. “Not everything he said was a lie no. But there were elements of fiction within what he did deign to tell us. That much I can tell you.”

His grandson looks confused by this, and indeed, Rickard guesses that it is confusion as much as anything that makes him ask. “But why would he lie to you? Surely he knew you would figure out he was lying.”

“Oh I have no doubt he knew I would know he was lying,” Rickard agrees. “The point is, I do not think he thought me able to dissect what bits of information he told me was a lie, and which was fact. He expects me to spend most of my time now, dissecting this.”

His grandson looks at him and then asks. “But you already know which was a lie and which was true?”

Rickard nods, pleased with his grandson’s quickness. “Yes. That nonsense about the Faith, was a lie. Those who opposed Septon Maegor, were long ago allied to Jon Arryn, but the man kept them in check, they would not kill off the man who gave them a chance to convert the King. As to Lady Lysa, whilst she might be your aunt, she is not the same person she was when she was young. Her children are in the Vale and have been for some time, but she does not leave the Arryn Manor, for she knows if she leaves for the Vale she will never make it there.”

His grandson looks horrified by this. “Why?”

Rickard looks at his grandson and says simply. “Because she is guilty of having a hand in her father’s murder, and she knows it.”


	18. Fox

**8 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Ser Colin Florent**

King’s Landing stank, it always had, and it always would, Colin had known that from the first, and yet, there was a certain appeal to the place, an allure, that was hard to shake off. He’d been in King’s Landing for around five years now, serving as his family’s representative at court, and he loved it. He loved the intrigue, the spectacle of it all, and he loved the fact that he was away from his family. Growing up in such a big family, had been stifling for him, being away from them, was a breath of fresh air, something he thoroughly enjoyed. That he was in good with the Hand of the King, as well as the King himself, meant that his brother’s foolish display at the King’s wedding had been overlooked and the King had chosen him for this mission, to deal with the Faith. With the new High Septon. That the new High Septon was also his uncle, was a bonus, it was going to go well for him. He could sense the rewards either side would give him, at the end of this, it made his mouth water.

The Great Sept of Baelor was a bright spot, in a part of the city that smelled of shit, and where the poor congregated, failing to realise that the Faith did not give two shits about them. Colin walks passed two begging brothers, nodding to them, knowing them for who they really are, and then he walks into the chambers of the Great Sept. He gives his name, and is led toward the chambers of the High Septon, the door opens, and he bows, kissing the ring of the man who is his uncle, and is now the leader of the Faith. “Rise.” The High Septon says, his voice commanding, as it always has been. Colin rises, and then sits down in a chair opposite the High Septon, the man offers him a cup of hippocras, which he gratefully accepts, he takes a sip and then waits. The High Septon is not an overtly patient man when it comes to talking, and so, Colin is not surprised when he immediately asks. “What have you learned then? What has that whoreson had to say for himself?”

Colin does not need to ask what whoreson his uncle refers to, instead he merely grins and replies. “The man continues to insist that the way the Faith is going now, will only lead toward damnation. He believes reform needs to be implemented before the Seven come to Earth and damage us.”

The High Septon snorts. “That man is a fool; he has begun believing his own cult of personality. I take it you made sure that your men dealt with his more zealous followers?”

“Of course. They were gutted and left to drown within the streams of the Crownlands. The Crown will not miss them, and I doubt that the Sparrow even knows they have gone.” Colin replies, feeling no shame in what he had done. His brother might harp on about their souls, but his brother was a fool.

“Good. Now tell me, what word do you have from the court? What is that heathen preaching now?” the High Septon asks, barely able to restrain the disdain in his voice, at the mention of the Hand.

“The Hand met with Petyr Baelish three days ago, to discuss Jon Arryn’s murder. Baelish did as we asked him to and laid a false trail, toward the old High Septon and his followers. I do not know if the Hand bought the ruse, but he has begun looking into it.” Colin responds.

“That is good.” His uncle responds. “My predecessor was a fool, who left far too many bodies in the open. Baelish will need to be watched of course.”

Colin nods, then voices a concern he has had for some time. “Do you think it is truly wise to place so much trust into a man such as Baelish? After all, the man was more than willing to sell out Lord Arryn, how do we know he will not sell us out?”

His uncle smiles, a smile that used to terrify him when he was a child. “Because we have that which he holds most dear. A way into the heart of his love, and a way to ensure that none ever suspect him of the games he plays. He will not turn on us just yet.”

The words are meant to be soothing, but Colin cannot help but pick up on the last word his uncle had used. “Yet? You mean to say that you think he will betray us?”

“Undoubtedly.” His uncle responds with a wry smile. “Men like Baelish are not meant to be loyal, they are meant to be used, and to use, and then they turn their cloaks. But by the time he tries to turn his cloak, he will be brought down with those he tries to betray.”

Curious, Colin asks. “How can you be so sure? From what I know, Baelish has put a lot of time and effort into separating himself from many of the schemes and plots he is actually involved in. Nothing that Dornish whore has looked into has led back to him, how then will we bring him down?”

His uncle smiles at him indulgently, as if he is a child and not a man of nearly fifty namedays. “Because you are trusted by the boy King, and that trust will come of use in the days and years to come.”

Colin takes another sip of hippocras, the thought of the King makes him slightly uncomfortable. The boy is shrewd, but he is still a boy, and as such, there is a part of Colin that feels bad about doing all they are doing. Still, he reassures himself, that this is the right way to do things. “You are sure then, that the men you have positioned will come right?”

The High Septon nods. “I know they will, they are ready and waiting.”

“Waiting?” Colin asks surprised. “Waiting for what?”

“Waiting for the right time to move.” His uncle replies. “They have waited for a long time to return home, the time must be right, otherwise they will falter. The men must be ready for a fight.”

Colin takes another sip of hippocras, and then putting the goblet down asks. “What of the Sparrow, I do not think he will appreciate his men being used for this war.”

“The Sparrow is a dangerous man that is true,” his uncle acknowledges, taking a sip of his own hippocras, before continuing. “But, he is not the almighty. No, he is a mere beggar, and beggars can be crushed. The nobles will not support him, and the peasants will support whoever their lords tell them to. We have him, but we must also find her.”

“Her?” Colin asks, surprised. “You think this woman we have heard of is actually real? I had thought this was some gossip that the wench spoke of but meant nothing. Why have our own spies not found anything?”

His uncle sighs, shaking his head fondly. “Because the Dornish Whore has no doubt been looking for her as well. And she controls the spies that make moves everywhere. Why do you think information from the Vale has been so contained, when by rights, they should be rising for us?”

Colin nods, seeing the sense in that. “If what you say is true Your Holiness, then perhaps we can find another source for our own feelings. The Stormlands are brewing in discontent, the papers Gunthor distributed have been very well received, and Renly Baratheon has not yet overcome the accusations of planning his brother’s murder.” At this Colin stops, it had been some ten years since that event, and yet still, the seeds of that death echo throughout the Stormlands, no doubt the Tyrells had had a hand in it as well, the rumours of Renly Baratheon and Loras Tyrell were known to almost all at court, as well as within the Stormlands. Seeing his uncle’s impatient eyes, he continues. “Furthermore, the riverlands are teetering as always. Lord Edmure controls those lands nearest to Riverrun, but Bracken and Blackwood are growing more and more tense in their relation. Something to do with an issue of land once more. I think we can appeal to them.”

His uncle nods. “Yes, Bracken will be a most valued ally.” There is a moment’s pause, in which his uncle seems to be considering something, and then he speaks once more, his voice softer. “You are meeting with the King today?” Colin nods, right after this in fact. “Then tell him some of what you have mentioned here, but not all. And tell him to look to Baelish.”

With that Colin nods, stands up, and kisses his uncle’s ring once more, before turning and walking out of the room. The guards of his household meet him on the outside of the room, walking in silence back to their horses, he mounts up, and spurs his horse onward, toward the Red Keep. As he rides toward the King’s castle, he thinks of something he heard once as a boy, something about the dragons being vile sorcerers and evil wizards, he’d laughed at it then, he’d been a boy, and King Aegon had reigned, but then Summerhall had happened, and the mystery had been killed for. He knew not what to make of all of that, and he was not sure he cared, but he knew that something was going on, deep within the Red Keep, and he was meant to find it out.

He arrives at the Red Keep, dismounting, he states his name and business to the guards at the gates, watching as the gates slowly open, he walks in, and finds that the courtyard is deserted, it is not late, indeed, it is not yet past midday, the desertedness of the courtyard unnerves him, but he knows better than to ask. The King does not much like his lesser questioning him. And so he walks, his thoughts awash with trying to sort out what it is he will say and what it is he will not say. Eventually, he arrives at the King’s solar, seeing Ser Oswell Whent and Ser Jon Redfort standing guard outside, he nods to them, waits as they announce his presence and then he walks in. He kneels before the King, kisses the boy’s ring, and then rises, he remains standing, whilst the King remains sitting. The King eventually speaks. “So tell me, what have you learned from your conversation with that treasonous cur who calls himself a man of God?”

Keeping his expression as blank as possible, Colin speaks. “The High Septon has tasked me with playing up the tensions within the Stormlands Sire, he has tasked me with playing on the tension some within the Stormlands feel about Renly Baratheon’s closeness with Loras Tyrell, and ensuring that they do not get a chance to rectify the slander.”

“And what of the claims?” The King asks curiously.

“He made no mention of the claims Sire. Only that the Stormlands were to be a veritable pot of danger.” Colin replies carefully, finding himself wondering why his uncle had not mentioned the claims.

“And what did he say about the Sparrow? I trust you have figured out by now that your uncle is speaking with the Sparrow?” the King states.

 _More than you know boy._ Colin thinks to himself, aloud, he merely says. “He mentioned that the Sparrow is a disposable tool to him, and that he wishes for the fool to be treated as that. A man with a brain that has been clouded with power and desire.”

“I see.” The King responds. “And what of the Sparrow’s followers?”

“Dead, as ordered Sire.” Colin responds blankly.

The King nods and then says dismissively. “You may leave now Ser Colin.” The knight nods, kisses the ring and bows, before straightening himself up, and walking out, once he makes his way back to his horse and to his manor, he breathes a sigh of relief, and sends word for Shae. He needs a good night.

 


	19. Winter, Before The Storm

**9 th Month of 298 A.C. Winterfell**

**Eddard Stark**

Winter was beginning to settle around them, it was visible from the way the wind blew, from the shorter days, and from the summer snows. Autumn would be brief, as the long summer ended. Ned knew that with the coming of winter, so too would new challenges come. His father remained in the south, serving as the King’s hand, and so it was left to Ned to work on everything that needed to be done. That involved speaking with Lord Umber, and the chiefs of the Mountain clans to discuss their growing concerns over the Watch and the Wildlings. Reports had been coming in for some time, about movement north of the wall, and the memories of what had happened last time the wildlings had come south, played through Ned’s mind almost constantly, it was not an easy thing, and the Umbers and the Mountain clans were not always on the same page.

Ned takes a sip of water, then begins speaking. “My lords, your concerns are valid and well put forward. If I have understood you correctly, the Watch has been lax in its duty in preventing wildling raids from coming across the wall, and hitting you where it hurts the most.”

“That is correct my lord.” Lord Theodore Wull says. “The Wildlings have come in greater numbers than anything I have ever seen. I think they are trying to impress us with their numbers. Or perhaps, they are merely serving as a scouting party.”

“Pah, you honestly think the wildlings are that well organised to be able to send scouts ahead?” The Greatjon, a great beast of a man barks. “No doubt these are the same fuckers who have been crossing across the wall for generations. I am not sure whether they are trying something, or if they are merely doing as they have always done.”

“Surely you must admit that the laxness with which the Night’s Watch has dealt with these raids is worrying though my lord?” Wull asks. “The Lord Commander is not as strong as his predecessor, was chosen on the slimmest of margins.”

Ned hides a sigh at that, Qorgyle had been a mad man, the images of those sacrifices and the goat heads, still terrified him, and then there had been Mormont who had done reasonably well, but he had died, from what, none knew. Bowen Marsh, was a placeholder candidate, chosen on the thinnest of majorities and the divisions within the Watch were crippling it. “Marsh is from the north; he should know the reasoning behind a strong Watch. And yet he spends more time playing politics than he does actually fixing his charge.” Lord Umber says derisively.

Ned can hear some bitter under currents in Umber’s words, and he sighs behind his cup, he knows his father had done what he thought necessary, and yet, there was an undercurrent of resentment amongst the more ardent northmen. A feeling that Lord Rickard spent more time playing as a southerner than as a man of the north. Ned had tried explaining that to his father, but had been written off, Lord Rickard had merely said that he was doing a good job keeping the north in line, and that there was no need for him to venture north yet. Ned takes a breath, then speaks. “And what of you Lord Flint, you have been oddly quiet. Tell me, what do you make of these increasing wildling raids?”

Lord Flint is a young man, newly entered into his position, and eager to prove himself, to himself and to his family. “I think the Wildlings must be put down regardless of whether these are just their usual raids, or if they are something more. They have ever been a threat my lord, and if the Night’s Watch will not do its damned duty, then we shall need to do it.”

Ned startles slightly at that. “You suggest we head north of the wall on a ranging and do what no northern lord has done since the days of Theon Stark?”

“Yes my lord, I do.” Lord Flint says. “The Watch is falling apart, any attempt to reform it from the outside shall not work. It is only normal then that we do what needs to be done. We must find out what the Wildlings are doing, and I do not think we shall figure that out, by remaining where we are now.” The man pauses, allowing his words to sink in, Ned admits he does make a good case, but something about this does not sit well with him, Flint is young, and rash. Brandon was young and rash, and he died. He listens though, as Flint continues speaking. “The wildlings are growing stronger, that much, none of us can deny. We must learn why that is. What better way to do that, than to head north and find them at their root and stamp them out.”

“My lord of Flint is right.” Lord Norrey says, speaking for the first time then. “We must find the wildlings and deal with them first. Otherwise they shall come for us and try and deal with us.” There is a moment’s pause then, as if Norrey is considering his next words carefully. “And if things continue as they are in the south, we might very well be required to move southwards soon. We must deal with the threats to our border first.”

Ned nods, the thought of heading south with this threat still lingering over them, is not one that appeals to him. And so he says. “Very well, wise counsel, but first we must speak of what we know.” He looks pointedly then at the Greatjon who nods and unfurls a scroll.

“Word came from my uncle Mors a few days ago, he was sent on a scouting mission north of Last Hearth, toward the Gift. Whilst he was there, he found ruins, more so than usual, and he also found villagers cowering in their homes. It seems the wildlings had finally gone for their stores.” The Greatjon reads aloud the words written from the scroll, his voice filled with anger.

The words nit Ned hard, the stores of the Gift being taken? With what they had within them, dear gods, how had the Night’s Watch allowed that to happen? Fighting to keep his voice calm he asks. “Did the letter say what the response of the Watch and the villagers was?”

The Greatjon looks at him curiously, and then says. “The Watch was too late to come to the aid of the villagers, their chieftain died, and the stores were sacked, but they managed to capture one of the wildlings.”

“Good, is the wildling alive?” Ned asks, fighting even harder to keep his voice calm.

“Yes my lord.” The Greatjon responds softly.

“Good. I want the man brought here to Winterfell, for questioning. The more we can learn about their plans and reasoning, the more we can prepare and plan.” Ned responds, impressed with how calm his voice is. The thought of the thing within the stores of the Gift, in wildling hands terrifies him, he remembers the stories, the promises his father had told him about long ago, he knows what might happen should the wildlings discover the thing. He takes a sip of water, then asks. “Is there aught else?” When none answer, he puts the cup of water down and says. “Very well, this meeting is adjourned, we shall meet again tomorrow for the feast.” He watches the lords depart, then summons Luwin and tells the man. “Send word to my brother Benjen. Tell him to come to Winterfell as soon as he can.” The maester nods and then leaves.

Eventually, Ned stands and walks out of the solar, he is surprised by just how dark it has become in the hours since morning, he walks with candles lighting the way to his wife’s room, he knocks, and enters upon hearing her grant him entrance. His wife looks stunning as always, and she turns at his entrance and asks. “Ned is all okay?”

Ned sighs, he runs a hand through his hair, he asks instead. “How are the children doing Cat?”

His wife can tell he is avoiding the question, but she plays along all the same. “They are well my love. Rickon has been causing trouble with the swords once more. Arya and Bran have been climbing all over the castle, whilst Branda sits and watches.” She smiles at that last and Ned smiles in return, wondering, not for the first time how he managed to get so lucky.

“I see. Rickon hasn’t caused any more trouble for Ser Rodrick has he? I know he was doing something or the other a few days ago?” Ned asks, thinking of his second son with fondness, the boy reminds him a lot of Brandon, and with the direwolf some of the connections are more prominent, he just hopes the boy won’t do something rash.

“Oh no, he’s learned his lesson.” Catelyn replies fondly. Then she asks him once more. “What is wrong Ned, you seem tired and distracted.”

Ned sighs, he moves toward his wife and sits down next to her on the bed. “I’ve just spoken to the mountain clans and the Greatjon, it seems the Watch is failing once more in its duty to protect the realm from the wildlings. There are reports of growing raids, and more numbers of wildlings being seen south of the wall. The Watch is riven with internal division; Lord Commander Marsh cannot seem to fix anything. The Wildlings attacked the Gift and took something.”

Something in his voice must give him away, because his wife then asks. “What did they take Ned? Is it that thing that has you so worried?”

Ned rubs his eyes; he feels very tired suddenly. “That’s the thing, I think they’ve taken something, but I do not know if they have. There is a prisoner that was taken, and I’ve asked for him to be brought here for questioning. I need to know what they were looking for and if they found it.”

“You haven’t answered my question Ned, what is buried within the Gift, that has you so worried?” his wife probes.

Ned takes a breath, considering what to tell his wife, and what to leave out, eventually, he decides to tell her the whole truth. “The Wall is said to be eight thousand years old, no one really knows how old it is. But it was built for one reason, and that was to separate the First Men from their barbarous brothers. The Wildlings are descendants of those barbarians, who would not conform to the new order, who refused to give up their savagery. They are worshippers of vile gods, who they claim are the real old gods, and they claim all other sort of things. They keep attacking the wall, looking for a way to bring it down. The thing buried in the Gift, is the way to bring the wall down.”

“What is this thing Ned?” his wife asks. “Why was it buried there and not in Winterfell?”

Ned laughs. “Because when the wall was built and this thing was made, the Starks did not control the north. The north was several petty kingdoms all warring with one another, who agreed on one thing. The beings’ north of the wall must never come south, and so the thing was buried in the Gift, when it belonged to the lands of the fathers. It stayed there, under protection for years, and now, now it might be gone.”

“What is it exactly Ned?” his wife asks, fear entering her voice.

Ned takes a breath, looks at his wife, really looks at her, trying to quell his furiously beating heart, and replies simply. “It is a horn, a horn of legend. The Horn of Joramun, the first of the Fathers, and the man who made the key.”

“Key?” his wife asks. “What key?”

Ned sighs. “I do not know what the key is for. All I know is that you need the key and the horn, and now the wildlings might have the horn.”

“If they do have the horn, what will you do Ned?” his wife asks.

Ned sighs, takes his wife’s hand in his and responds. “I will ride to war.”

 


	20. Fire Prince

****

**9 th Month of 298 A.C. Dragonstone**

**Prince Viserys Targaryen**

Dragonstone was a looming fortress on the sea, built by the dragonlords of Valyria, before the doom, settled and expanded by his ancestors after the doom, it had been granted to him for a brief time, before his nephew had a son, and as such he knew every nook and cranny of the castle. He knew the smallfolk, he was worshipped as a God by the smallfolk, even if the nobles had forgotten their place. The regent had done much good for the family, repairing the damage, that his father had done, but he was no dragon, he was a wolf, and a wolf was always lesser than a dragon. It mattered not though, the regent was no regent anymore, he was merely the Hand. His nephew was growing, strong and powerful, and that Viserys approved of, they could not afford a weak King, not again. Rhaegar had done far too much damage, for them to be able to afford that.

He hears her stir on the bed, and turns toward her. “The search for Jon Arryn’s murderer progresses, just as you said it would, my lady. They are circling in on Lysa Arryn, and that fool Baelish. Soon enough the ground will swell with their bodies.”

The Lady Melisandre, was red of hair, green of eye, and beautiful, absolutely beautiful. Viserys had met her during his travels of Essos, he was not sure if he loved her, but he certainly lusted after her. “As the Lord of Light said it would be my Prince. Soon enough, the false falcons shall be exposed for who they are, they will fall. As they rightly should for what they did during the War of the Usurper.”

Viserys nods, approvingly. “The King does not seem sure over whether or not the man actually did the deed. That Lady Lysa killed her father, he harbours no doubts over, but that is because his grandsire has told him it was so. Though, why Lord Rickard did not act then, I do not know.”

The Lady Melisandre moves slightly in the bed, and Viserys sees an expanse of flesh, and feels his loins stir. “Sometimes, it is best to wait for enemies to make more mistakes. Lysa Arryn has always been one who seems to stir when the time is wrong. And her lover, well he is a man of many tastes, who hungers for revenge.”

Viserys nods, sensing the wisdom in her words, he has never thought to question how much Melisandre knows about Westeros, despite being from Essos. She is a fire witch, she has the sight, he has seen what she can do. It is not for him to question her, but merely to use her. “Brandon Stark’s shadow is one that will no doubt continue to haunt Baelish until the day he dies a grizzly death, something that will no doubt come soon, and when it does, I shall look forward to it.” Viserys has never liked Baelish, the man was always too low on the order to warrant a place in the capital, had flaunted his prestige, too much.

The Lady Melisandre stands up then, and comes to stand at his side, he feels the heat radiating off of her. “He will fall, and then you may repair the damage he has done within the inner workings of court, as is your right.”

Viserys nods, not doubting for a second that Viserys Targaryen will fall, and that he will achieve his rightful place on the council. “Aye, and perhaps I might fix the mess he has made with the Faith. They remain divided over everything, as all true non-believers are.”

He senses a change in Melisandre at that. “The Faith, they are false, my Prince. You must know that by now. Their attempts to kill the King, must surely show them as the demons that we have spoken of for so long now.”

Viserys takes a deep breath. “Indeed, you are right. But I cannot very well go ahead and say that for all to hear. I am a dragon, but I am not the dragon. There are very few things that I can say that will not damage the strength and support for my house, and that is not something I can afford. Not after what Rhaegar and my father did.”

He feels the Lady Melisandre wrap her arms around his waist, and he feels her place her head on his shoulder. Her breath tickles his ears. “You cannot allow the whispering of sheep to dictate your will my Prince. You are a Dragon; you can tell them what to do. The people of Dragonstone, see you as a God. Use that. Make use of it, and you will have what you wish.”

Viserys snorts. “I do not doubt that. But first I would need to remove the whore of Highgarden from my nephew’s bed. And that will not be an easy thing, for she has spent so long within it, that I do not think my nephew knows the feel of another woman.”

“Was there something between the King and your sister, once, when they were small my Prince?” the Lady asks.

Viserys considers this then laughs. “No, that was nothing. Daenerys has her Hightower, but she thinks she wants him, when really she has never stopped wanting the King. I can push her, but it is him that we need to considering more.”

He feels Melisandre tighten her hold on his waist, he feels her hand sneak down to where his manhood rests. “Let me deal with the King, my Prince. I can make sure he does as you wish him to do. The darkness will not settle over him, that much I can promise you.”

Viserys feels his breath hitch as the woman strokes his manhood. “And where is the darkness? It is creeping in, I know that much, but where is it?”

Melisandre bites his ear, and he turns them around so that they face one another, he lifts her up and into his arms moving them to the bed, he lies her down and begins kissing her. As he does so, her answer comes out breathily. “The darkness is with the false one, who sits claiming as the King of Fire. But he will not stop, he will come to Westeros.”

In between kisses, Viserys responds. “Then do what you need to do, and make sure my nephew does not fall to the darkness. Knowing the Tyrells, they might already be trying to break through into his inner shell.”

The red woman moans and then says breathily. “I will do as my prince commands.” After that they do not talk anymore, but give themselves over to their urges, and when he is finished for a second time, Viserys gets up, and writes a letter to a friend. The time is coming when old favours will need to be called in. War and darkness are coming, and only the strong will survive.


	21. Trial

**10 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lady Lysa Arryn**

Lysa was worried, she had been kept in King’s Landing after her husband had died- she had never liked Jon, had never wanted to marry him, but had done so at her father’s urging, something she had made him regret- she had tried to leave the capital, but the Hand’s men had kept her in the manor that belonged to her husband, that now belonged to her son. The man had put it out that she had retired to the Eyrie, a lie that had alerted her that he knew, something, otherwise why would he do what he had done? And now, now she was here, in the throne room, the court was all here, her brother was here also, and that made things even worse, he was going to learn, find out all the things she had done. She wondered where Jasper was, was he here, or was he somewhere else. Gods what has happening and where was Petyr?

“Order.” The command comes from the Captain of The Gold Cloaks, and Lysa finds her attention pulled to the front of the room, the King sits on the throne, wearing the crown of Maekar, and a black and red doublet, he looks imposing, she shivers slightly.

Lord Staunton, the master of laws, a snake if ever there was one, comes forward and speaks. “My lords and ladies, Your Grace, we are here today, to hear evidence against Lady Lya Arryn, in regards to several heinous crimes. Once the evidence has been read out, the lady will have the chance to defend herself, before judgement rests with the crown.”

Lysa feels herself shrink a little under the intent gaze of so many people, she looks around the throne room, but cannot see Petyr, where is he? Her attention is drawn forward, when the King speaks. “Begin with this trial and let us see whether there is truth in your accusations Staunton.”

Staunton nods and speaks. “Lady Lysa, you are accused by several witnesses of harbouring several fugitives of the law, as well as being responsible for the death of your father, Lord Hoster Tully. How do you plead?”

Lysa feels a spike of fear run through her. “Not guilty.” She replies, causing Staunton to snort, she looks around the hall and sees her brother looking at her, and she knows, she just knows he already thinks her guilty.

Staunton looks at her and then asks. “Tell me my lady, where were you on the day your father died?”

Lysa must think and think quickly, the image of bedsheets, of Petyr and their embrace runs through her mind, but she says. “With my son.”

She can tell that Staunton was not expecting that, but that he has no way of proving that she is lying, and so instead he asks. “And where were you with your son my lady?”

“In the red keep, in the tower of the hand.” Lysa replies, lying through her teeth.

The Hand looks at her disbelievingly, and she can tell that the court is suspended in its disbelief. “So tell me my lady, why do these three men…” and here Staunton gestures to three men Lysa knows well, she feels her heart sink. “Say that you were with Petyr Baelish.”

Lysa stares at the men in disbelief, and not for the first time today, she finds herself wondering where Petyr is, and how he could be so careless as to leave three men behind if he has indeed fled, and then she thinks to herself, Petyr would never be so careless, and her heart sinks. If they have gotten to Petyr she is finished. She swallows, looks around the throne room, and she can see the people murmuring to themselves, whispering joyfully of her fall. She takes a breath, then says. “I do not know these men.”

“That is a lie.” One of the man, Baldric, she thinks his name is. “You know damned well who we are. We were the ones who helped you into Lord Baelish’s room that night, when your father fell ill. We used the vials you gave us and did as Lord Baelish asked of us.”

Lysa knows then that she is finished, she looks around for Petyr one more time, but does not seem him, her heart sinks. Reluctantly, she sighs. “Very well.” Her breathing starts to tremble, her heart gives way, she quivers. “I was with Petyr Baelish the day my father died.”

There are whispers of conferment, she sees her brother turn and walk out of the room from the corner of her eye. “So tell me my lady, why did you lie?”

Lysa feels the tears run down her cheeks. “Because I had thought it would protect me and my family from what happened. I did not mean for it to happen the way it did, it just happened. He wasn’t meant to have all the vial, but my father never did anything in halves. Everything he did was in wholes. He drank himself to death.”

“So you admit to it then? You admit to killing your father?” Staunton asks.

Hoping against hope that he is here, Lysa looks around for Petyr, but she cannot see him, and she knows that he has gone, he has left her here alone to face the crimes they committed together. “Yes.” She whispers.

“What was that?” Staunton asks.

“YES!” She screams. “I did it.”

“And there you have it my lords and ladies. Lysa Arryn killed her own father.” Staunton says triumphantly. The man gets ready to speak again, no doubt to pass the sentence over her, but before he can the King raises a hand and speaks.

“Just a minute my lord.” The King looks at her, and Lysa feels as if she is being analysed from top to bottom, eventually the King speaks. “Why did you do it?”

Lysa stares at the King, wondering why he is asking her this, why he cares. She is afraid, desperately afraid, that someone will now come to realise just how dark she has become. “I did it because he never cared for me. He never loved me. He forced me to marry a man I did not want to marry, and he made me get rid of the child of the man I loved. That I still love.”

“So you poisoned him. Did Baelish help you in this?” the King asks.

“Yes.” Lysa replies. “Where is he? Where is my love?”

The King ignores her question, and instead asks her another one. “What of your children? What of Jasper, is he Jon Arryn’s son?”

“Yes. I did my duty, I had the man’s son and heir, but nothing more.” Lysa replies.

The King nods. “Very well. You have admitted your guilt, there is no need for a formal sentence.” The man steps down off his throne, and walks down the steps, Lysa finds herself wondering what is going to happen now, her son, her son is safe for now, as is Petyr, but she is dead, that she knows.  The King stands before her now, looking at her with sorrow in his eyes. “For the love I bear your sister and her family, I will see you dead myself. Know this gives me no pleasure.”

Lysa is about to ask what he means, when she feels something sharp press into her, she looks down and sees blood falling to the ground, a knife buried in her stomach. She looks at it then at the King and whispers. “Tell my children I love them.” She thinks she sees the King nod, before she falls down. “Petyr…” she whispers as blood fills her mouth.


	22. Honour And War

**10 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

“It had to be done, I know that, but that does not mean I feel any better about it.” Jonothor says to the room at large, in attendance, his grandfather Lord Rickard, his wife Queen Margaery and the mistress of whispers Lady Ellaria Sand. “The lady was just that, a lady, and she was a mother as well, to my friend. I do not know what to make of it all. Why would she do something like that?”

It is his grandfather who replies, whilst Margaery takes his hand. “Lady Lysa was someone who needed something I feel her husband could not give her. I think she acted out of some desire for attention and for love. And it backfired. You were blameless in this Sire.”

“And what of the court, how are they all reacting to this? I have no doubt there are those who are delighting in Lady Lysa’s death. The flies that they are.” Jonothor says his voice filled with disgust.

“Strangely enough, there has been a fair amount of sympathy for the woman, Your Grace.” Lady Ellaria responds.

“What do you mean?” Jonothor asks. “I had thought, Lord Arryn was popular at court?”

“Lord Arryn carried the taint of Robert Baratheon with him Sire. Furthermore, he was cold to his wife, and the Lady Lysa was always one for celebrating and hosting events during her time here. They felt sorry for her, and as such, there is not much more they are discussing about it. Indeed, they are more interested to know where Lord Baelish is.” Lady Ellaria responds.

“And where exactly is the mockingbird my lady?” Jonothor asks, when the gold cloaks had searched for the man in his manor house as well as in his brothels he had disappeared, seemingly without a trace, Lady Ellaria had been working overtime trying to make up for that.

“He was last seen boarding a ship, bound for where no one knows. But it does not take a genius to know he will be making his way for the Fingers, and from there no doubt to the Eyrie, to Lord Jasper.” Lady Ellaria responds.

“Where he will be thrown into a cell. Jasper does not like the man, has never liked the man.” Jonothor says emphatically. He remembers having to sit through some of his friend’s rants about the man when they were young.

“That is not what my spies are telling me Sire.” Lady Ellaria responds.

Shocked, Jonothor looks at her and asks. “What do you mean?”

Lady Ellaria hesitates, then responds. “It seems that Lord Jasper has been meeting with some of the less desirous lords of the Vale, Corbray, Grafton, the Gulltown Arryns and discussing things with them. Certain issues that he feels might have led to his father’s death. It seems Baelish introduced him to these men some time ago. I do not think your friend would be the same man as he was when last you met him.”

Jonothor stares at the woman, uncomprehendingly. “That can’t be right. Jasper would never speak to those fools. He knew they were Baelish’s men, he said so himself. He hated Baelish, why would he seek to meet with them and that man now?”

His grandfather speaks then. “Because for so long he was your friend, living in your shadow. And now he is out of your shadow and that of his father’s, he is trying to make his own way in life, and Baelish is there to help guide him. Most likely as the last piece of his mother he has.”

“Baelish is the reason his mother is dead!” Jonothor snarls. “I had to do what I did because Baelish forced the woman into making a decision that cost her, her life. She committed treason and the punishment for treason is death.”

It is Margaery who speaks then. “And I am sure on some level Jasper knows that my love, but that was his mother who you killed. And no one ever takes well to having their family killed, regardless of the reason. I think Jasper expected you to take exception.”

Jonothor feels his shoulders sag then. He looks at his wife and replies softly. “I could not make an exception. There can be no exceptions for anyone, the law is the law. If I had made an exception, then the whole system would have come crashing down.”

Margaery puts her hand on his cheek and whispers. “I know my love, and I am sure on some level Jasper does as well. But he is a boy who has lost both his parents in quick succession, no doubt he is feeling vulnerable and weak. Baelish is exploiting that.”

“What should I do then?” Jonothor asks feeling lost. “Should I invite him to King’s Landing to talk?”

His grandfather speaks then. “I would advise against that Sire. Jasper Arryn needs to have the confidence of his lords first before he can truly feel comfortable. And if Baelish is playing a game here, then we had best see what game it is before we make a move.”

“A game? He is going to play a game with someone’s life? The life of the boy his lover valued above all else? What kind of man is Lord Baelish?” Jonothor asks disgusted.

“A very sick man, and one who needs to be dealt with.” His grandfather replies.

“So let us deal with him now. We have our allies in the Vale, we can make our moves and ensure it is done and dusted before anyone knows better.” Jonothor states.

“If we move now, Baelish will have time to change his plans. Whatever they might be, it would be better for us to sit and wait, and see. Once we have more of an idea, we can make our move and remove him.” His grandfather replies.

Jonothor sighs, and he feels his wife’s hand move to his arm then his hand and feels her squeeze his hand sympathetically. “Very well. But I want to make sure everything we know about Baelish is put into use here. And I want a report on his and Jasper’s movements from now on. Everything they do.”

“Yes Sire.” Lady Ellaria responds nodding.

“What of the brothels Baelish had here? Have we found any proof that they were in fact bases for hostile engagements?” Jonothor asks.

His grandfather nods. “We have found twenty men who are known to us as part of the High Sparrow’s group working there, feeding information to their sources and spies. We arrested them and questioned them, they have revealed more locations.”

Jonothor leans forward expectantly. “And… where are these locations?”

“Several places within the Riverlands and several within King’s Landing itself.” His grandfather replies simply.

“And have you sent men there?” Jonothor asks.

“Of course Sire.” His grandfather responds.

“Good. I want to go to one of these places myself, and see the traitors for myself.” Jonothor says emphatically.

Before his grandsire can respond, the door opens, and Ser Gerold Hightower walks in, he bows before Jonothor and Margaery and then says. “Word has come from the gold cloaks. Lord Wyman was attacked as he made his way back from the harbour.”

“Who did the deed?” Jonothor asks.

“Members of the Sparrows.” Hightower responds.

Jonothor nods at the knight, then looks at his grandsire. “Get more of the gold cloaks, your own men and others ready. We’re going Sparrow hunting.”

 


	23. Confusion

**10 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lord Rickard Stark**

Armoured and saddled up, Rickard takes a few moments to assess the scene before him. The King is dressed head to toe in black as night armour, the crown of King Maekar atop his head, Blackfyre in his hands. The Kingsguard fan out around him, protecting him atop their horses as well. There are roughly six hundred men riding with the King today, to ensure that the Sparrows do not branch out and attack whilst they are being put down. Reassured that there is adequate protection, Rickard looks at his grandson and says. “We are ready to go when you are Sire.”

The King nods. “Where did you say the Sparrows were congregating?”

“In the shadow of the statue of Hugor the Hill.” Rickard supplies.

“Very well, let us ride.” His King says, digging his spurs into his horse and setting off. Rickard rides behind the King and his guard, with his own men at his side. He wonders if today they will finally resolve the issue of the Sparrows, or if this action will cause even more issues. Whatever happens, they have certainly become bolder, actively attacking a member of the small council, and one who worships the same damned gods as them. He sighs internally, perhaps the time is coming for a full-scale purge of them.

Out of the Red Keep they ride, taking a steady pace, they do not want to alarm the citizens of King’s Landing, and give the sparrows a chance to hide. As they ride, Rickard takes the time to look around at the surroundings, assessing for any potential danger. He cannot see any near the Red Keep, which is good, it shows they are doing their duty properly. The city has gotten safer since the coronation, but perhaps there are still those who wish to bring harm to the crown, for what reason he does not know, but if they are out there today, they will be dealt with. They pass underneath a bridge, one of the things he had had built during the course of his time as regent, to make things more accessible, and as they pass under the bridge he gets the feeling that they are being watched.

Sure, enough as they emerge from the bridge, there standing before them are a group of sparrows. “Leave here and never return bastard.” The leader of their group shouts.

The King looks at the man and says. “Why are you doing this? We have done nothing to you. Where is Lord Wyman?”

“The Fat Lord? The glutton who benefits from his position on a heretic’s council? He is dead.” The man snarls. And the crowd parts, showing Lord Wyman strung up like a pig, his head battered, his body bruised and bleeding.

Rickard’s heart thrums in his chest, anger pulses through him, he wants to ride forward and hack these fools to pieces, but he restrains himself, knowing that this is for the King to deal with now. The King looks at the leader of the Sparrows and says. “You have committed treason. And now you must die.”

The leader of the Sparrows laughs. “Treason? I do not recognise a bastard as my King. Bring your worst.”

The King seems to be reluctant to do so, but when one of the sparrows throws a spear-where did he get a spear from- at the feet of the King’s horse, that decides it. The King draws his sword and rides hard toward the sparrows, the Kingsguard following. Rickard sees them cut down the leader of the Sparrows and several men, and then he orders his men to follow. There are more sparrows, than he had thought possible at first, and they come swarming over from all sorts of places. Demanding to be seen, to be heard. Rickard swings his sword, cutting down one man, and then another. No matter how many people he kills, more of them keep appearing. It is unnerving, the King is still protected by the Kingsguard, but he feels a pinch of worry in his stomach. He needs to close the gap; they need to bring the sparrows down and then get out of here. The bridge behind them could be their death warrant.

The King must have the same idea for he is riding forwards, not backwards, drawing the sparrows towards him and allowing Rickard and his men to pen them in as well as they move forward. Rickard’s sword is covered in the guts and gore from the enemy who fight on foot, but there is nothing more to it. They continue fighting, more of them appearing from corners of the streets, where the sun does not shine. Rickard barks out commands and sends men into those corners, determined to root out the enemy before they can swarm over them. As such, more bodies come falling out, some bearing the arms of the Starks, some of the Gold Cloaks, but most of them are the colourless, bannerless arms of the sparrows. The King seems to be doing a good job, breaking the Sparrows against the walls of his city, and the walls of his swords. The Gold Cloaks are penning the Sparrows in as well, and Rickard knows that soon enough they will be done for. He smiles at the thought; it will be good to not have a sparrow problem anymore.  As he cuts down one more sparrow, he moves towards Wyman’s body, and is surprised to see something stuck to it. He looks at it and sees a note, but he cannot get to it yet. At least, not until the sparrows are gone.

Eventually, when the sun is at its highest, the sparrows are all dead, lying on the ground, their blood paving the way for a path back to the Red Keep. Rickard nods to his grandson in acknowledgement of the boy’s good leadership, and he finds himself drawn back to Wyman’s body. He moves his horse a few metres away, and dismounts. He closes his eyes, and says a quick prayer for his old friend, before moving to his body. With gloved hands, he takes the letter pinned to his friend’s body. He reads the letter, and then hands it to the King. And when the King is done reading, the King says. “We must hurry back as quickly as we can.” Rickard nods, and mounts his horse once more allowing the King to go first, before following as quickly as he can.

As they race against time, Rickard’s mind is a whir with the possibilities of what the letter could mean. He hopes they have not completely misjudged the situation, but if they have, then they must be prepared to get it under control as soon as possible. They fly through the streets, charging back up to the Red Keep, Rickard’s attention is completely fixed on the way ahead, that he does not look at the side streets. He does not see the man until it is too late, and when he does see the man, his horse is dead, he is lying there, crushed underneath it, bleeding, and the man despite the presence of the guards of Winterfell and the Gold Cloaks, moves fast as lightning to remove him. He feels the cold press of steel, and as the darkness grows, all he can think of is Lyarra, and how they won’t be going at the same time. The thought is a bitter one. But as his strength disappears, he grabs the man’s throat and squeezes, if he dies, so does the bastard.


	24. Grief

**11 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lady Lyarra Stark**

Her husband’s body had been cleaned and washed, and then placed in a coffin to be carried back to Winterfell by ship. She had stood there and watched as the work was done, and as her husband left her for the final time. Grief haunts her, her husband and she had grown up together, doing many things with one another for the first time. Her husband had been her greatest friend and love, and now he was gone. The Sparrows had had their revenge on him, but she knew he had died defending their grandson, and that was something she could not deny. Lyarra was determined to protect their grandsons, and their family from the inevitable chaos that was going to come from this. That was why she had asked her two grandsons, the King and the heir to Winterfell to come to her solar, so they might talk.

“The men who killed your grandfather, they have been found?” she asks.

“Yes grandmother.” The King responds. “They were questioned most thoroughly.”

“And what information did they provide you with?” she asks, though she thinks she knows.

“They told us little. But what they did say was most informative.” The King says. “It seems the High Septon was the one organising everything in recent days. The man had met with Lord Wyman and censured him for working with such a heretical regime. Lord Wyman refused to break his oath and was killed and strung up like a pig.” Lyarra closes her eyes then, Wyman had been a good friend to them all. “The sparrows also admitted that there was more to come.”

Lyarra nods, she had thought as much. “What about the letter that was pinned to Lord Wyman’s body, did they have anything to say about that?”

“Yes.” The King replies. “They said that the letter was just the beginning. That they wanted to draw fear from us, and that they were determined to succeed where their brethren had failed during the reign of King Aenys.”

“How exactly will they do that, when the sparrows in King’s Landing have been destroyed?” her grandson Robb asks.

“There are still many sparrows trailing about in other areas of the Kingdom.” Lyarra points out. “And so long as the High Sparrow is at large, we know that this will not end soon.”

“What do you suggest?” the King asks. “I had thought about moving as quickly as possible, but the more I think about it, the more I think that doing so would only play into their hands.”

Lyarra turns and looks at her grandsons, seeing the tiredness in both their eyes, she says. “You must wait. If there is anything I have learned about these sparrows, it is that they are not patient. They will need to do something that draws even more attention toward them. And when they do that, that is when you strike.”

Her grandsons nod. “It will not be easy. No doubt they will try to draw the attention of the peasants.”

“And if they are smart, the peasants will pay them no mind. The Sparrows will do them more harm than good in the long term.” Lyarra replies confidently.

“How so?” her grandson Robb asks. “Surely from what we have seen, it is the peasants we need to be focusing on. After all, the sparrows have been just that. Angry peasants who have been taken advantage of.”

Lyarra sighs, in some ways Robb is completely different to his father, in other ways, he reminds her of Ned when he was a child as well, so naïve and trusting. “And look how that has served the peasants who have joined the sparrows. They have all died. No sane peasant will want to join the sparrows, when that will be their fate. And as such, the sparrows will get desperate, and when people are desperate they make mistakes.”

The King looks at her intently then. “So you recommend just waiting then?”

“Yes. But I would not be idle, there are council positions you need to fill.” Lyarra responds, and upon seeing the shocked look on her grandsons faces she says. “I loved your grandfather, I still love him, I always will. But he is gone now, I cannot spend time thinking about what could have been. We have to keep moving forward.” Those were the exact words her own husband used when his own father died all those years ago.

Her grandsons nod, and the King says. “I am going to name Robb Hand of the King.”

Lyarra smiles, though Robb is clearly surprised. “A good choice, you need someone who you can trust helping you at your right hand. And what of Master of Coin? Now that Wyman is dead, there will be those within the crownlands who come clamouring for the position. You will need to hold firm.”

“You do not think naming one of his sons would do the job?” the King asks.

Lyarra shakes her head. “No. Wylis and Wendel Manderly might be smart men and capable, but they are not as good as their father was. They will thrive in the north, and they will be gutted for meat in the south. Better to name someone from the Reach who has experience.”

“What of a member of the Hightower family, I know they have done quite well with various trading ventures as of late.” The King queries.

“A good choice. The Hightowers are always a good ally to have.” Lyarra agrees.

The King nods and then asks. “Do you wish to return to Winterfell, grandmother? To be there when grandfather is buried?”

Lyarra sighs once more, she would love nothing more than to head back north, and retire into her dotage, but she knows she cannot. She and Rickard promised one another that they would not leave King’s Landing until their grandson was secure on his throne. And so, it is with a heavy heart that she shakes her head and says. “I thank you for the offer Your Grace, but my place is here, at King’s Landing with you all.”

The King looks as if he might protest, but then he nods his head in acceptance, and asks. “What do you think should be done about the High Septon? The man has done much and more to cause chaos within the city, but speaking with the small council, they do not think there is enough ground to arrest him.”

Lyarra snorts. “Of course not. Some of them have likely forgotten who the true master of the Faith is. You will need to deal with the High Septon as quickly as you can, and you will need to employ the people Rickard had brought here, to ensure that everything goes as accordingly as you wish it.”

Her grandson looks at her uncertainly. “Do you think such a thing will work? The people will not think that I am being too presumptuous?”

Lyarra moves to the King and places her hands on his face, looking right into his eyes she says. “If you do it right, they will think you Hugor Hill come again. And I know you, you will do it right. The High Septon will perish before you.”

The King seems reassured by this. “Okay.” A pause then. “I had best write to Lord Eddard and give him my condolences.” Robb also says something similar, and both boys leave then, leaving Lyarra alone with her thoughts. As she sits down, she closes her eyes and dreams of when she was young and Rickard was alive.


	25. What Is?

**11 th Month of 298 A.C. Casterly Rock**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

“Things are changing. Lord Rickard is dead, the only member of the old generation who is still alive is Lady Olenna, and I do not think she will be doing much more than advising her granddaughter.” Jaime says as he looks at the letter that had come from court. He had been a bit surprised that the King had thought to write to him, but then he had remembered that such important news had to be spread throughout the realm, to inform the lords of the change. “That the King has named a boy as his hand, that is something interesting.”

“His cousin as well. Now who says the Targaryens don’t show favouritism.” His brother Tyrion quips.

Jaime grins, but Ashara speaks then. “Perhaps this is good for us. It means that the Tyrells cannot completely take over the court. And I am sure that is what Mace Tyrell was hoping for when his daughter married the King.”

“Oh, I am certain that is what Tyrell was hoping for. But the man lacked the same sort of drive and cleverness to make that happen as Lord Rickard did.” Jaime says, thinking back to the rare times he had been to court, and what he had seen and been told by Arthur.

“And now with the man dead, and the annihilation of the Sparrows within the capital, the High Sparrow is most definitely facing a backwards descent.” His brother points out. “I do not think the peasants will side with him, especially if such a fate as was visited upon the peasants who sided with him within the capital, looks likely. The King and Lord Rickard have done the realm a favour.”

Jaime nods, but something is there nagging at him. “I think you are right brother, but there is something that is bothering me. If the High Sparrow is the one who truly pulls the strings in the Great Sept and in the Faith, at large, the King will need to find him. And as of now, no one knows where to find the man. That could have potentially disastrous consequences.”

“Do you think it could come to war?” Ashara asks, her voice quavering slightly at the thought.

Jaime takes his wife’s hand and says. “I do not know. I would hope not. But the High Sparrow from what I have gathered does not seem like the sort of man to take anything lying down. Most likely, he will plan some sort of retribution for the King and when that comes, there will be more.”

“An escalation, the likes of which only the Faith can do.” Ashara says sounding completely resigned, so much so that Jaime squeezes her hand. “I do wonder if the High Septon is truly doing this of his own free will.”

Tyrion speaks then. “From what I have been able to gather, I think he most definitely is. The man has a strange way of showing gratitude. I think he is truly convinced of the nonsense that the High Sparrow is speaking, and as such, the Faith might very well not survive.”

“Do you think the divide under Septon Maegor has made things all the worse, because of the things that came out around the time of it?” Ashara asks.

“I think that whatever happened under Septon Maegor, something like this was inevitable.” Tyrion replies, at their questioning looks, he continues. “The Faith had been destroyed during the reign of Maegor the Cruel, Jaehaerys the Wise and his successors merely made sure to keep their boots on the Faith’s throat. Now however, the Faith sensed an opportunity and they are going to take it. I think the King will need to take immediate action to ensure this does not get out of hand.”

“I think we can safely say that the King has his work cut out for him then.” Jaime says wryly. “One High Septon has been murdered, Lord Wyman Manderly and Lord Rickard were both killed by members of the Faith. There will be war, of that much we can be certain. But whether or not it comes to the Westerlands is a completely different matter.” He takes a breath, then asks. “How is the situation amongst our own septries?”

Tyrion had been tasked with ensuring that the radical teachings of the Sparrows did not come to the Westerlands, that any and all Septons and Septas were investigated before being allowed to take up their positions within households and Septs. As such, Jaime is not surprised when his brother has to look at his notes before replying. “So far, there have been five cases of Sparrows infiltrating the ranks of the common Septons within the Westerlands, in each case, we have managed to find them before their radical speech could transverse very far. They have all been executed for treason. The Septons and Septas who are remaining, are all loyal to the doctrine High Septon Maegor had enshrined. And as such they continue to teach it in a manner that befits their station.”

“And what of the nobles?” Jaime asks. “How are they responding?”

“All of the nobility are sticking with what Septon Maegor had taught. They are rejecting the teachings of the Sparrows.” Tyrion says.

Jaime sighs in relief. “That is great. We have little to worry about then.”

His brother coughs slightly. “I would say that things are getting there, but they are not quite there yet.”

His eyes narrowing, Jaime asks. “What do you mean?”

“Our border with the Reach is seeing an increasing number of the old-style Faith believers come crawling in. All of them are talking about the end of the world, and how we are going to be facing some sort of oncoming end of times within the next few moons. They speak of things that they could not know.” Tyrion says.

His heart beginning to beat quicker, Jaime asks. “What do they speak of?”

“They speak of glass candles and magic returning to the world. They speak of the Seven being made flesh, and of the citadel being the cause of it all. I do not think they know what they are saying. They are merely trying to create chaos and uncertainty.” Tyrion says.

Jaime thinks on this, the glass candles seems familiar, how though, he does not quite know, and yet he finds himself compelled to say. “Are our people believing them?”

“Some are, the rise in the sale of protective charms is doing wonders for our coffers, but others are not so gullible and are asking for proof. I believe for now it should not be a complete issue. Yet I think it is something to keep an eye on.” Tyrion responds.

Jaime nods, knowing he need not say anything for his brother to do exactly that. Instead, he turns his attention to something else that has been troubling him. “Reports are coming in increasing number of pirate galleys sailing toward the Sunset Sea. I am not sure whether they are part of the recruitment of Ironborn Galleys, or whether Cersei is doing something.”

Immediately Ashara perks up. “Do you think your sister is planning something?”

Jaime sighs. “I do not know my love. But I do know that we cannot be too careful when it comes to dealing with Cersei and her husband. Lord knows they want something, what it is I do not know. I cannot invite her to the Rock, but I do think I can invite her children here.”

He can tell Ashara feels as if that is not good enough, and he wishes he could satisfy her needs in this regard, but at the end of it all Cersei is still his sister, and he might not love her, the way he once did, but she is still family. Still, his wife nods. “Very well. Do you think she will consent?”

“I am her liege lord. She will do as I ask, or suffer the consequences.” Jaime says simply, and as his wife smiles, he knows things will be easier from now on, regardless of what happens.


	26. Hesitate

**12 th Month of 298 A.C. Winterfell**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The godswood was quiet except for his breathing, he stands before the heart tree, not really sure what to think. His father was dead, the powerful and unbreakable Rickard Stark was dead, killed by fanatics. The thought made his blood boil, it also made him incredibly nervous. He was now Lord of Winterfell, and he was not sure whether to be happy or saddened by that thought. His wife’s voice sounds somewhere close by. “Ned…” he turns around and sighs.

“Sorry Cat, I didn’t mean to worry you, how long have I been gone?” he asks.

“Not for very long my love, but I thought I would come and see how you were.” His wife replies.

Ned nods, and extends his hand, Cat takes it and comes to stand at his side. He looks at her and then at the heart tree. “I do not know how to feel.” He says then, knowing he can speak and that his wife will listen. “For so long I wished for Father to come home, so that we might speak with one another properly, and I wished he would ask me to come to court. But he never did, and now he has come home. But he lies in the crypts.” He pauses uncertain of how to continue, but eventually he does so. “And now I am Lord of Winterfell.”

“And now you are Lord of Winterfell.” His wife agrees. She still holds his hand, and her voice is forceful when she says. “In name as well as deed now. My love you have ruled the north in your father’s name for almost sixteen years. The North has prospered under your guidance, we have two cities with ports on them, we have two fleets, the gold and silver from trade continues to pour in. Lord Farwynd has ensured that the Ironborn remain behind their rocks and their sea. You have done a great job, and I am sure you will continue to do so.”

Ned nods, he knows his wife speaks the truth, and yet there is still a part of him that remains hesitant. “I know my love, truly I do. But I am not sure how to feel. To become Lord of Winterfell like this? With my Father’s killers still out there. I do not know if this is right.” It is stupid he knows, he cannot ride south and leave the north alone, but there is a part of him that wishes to ride south at once and kill any and all who oppose him. He wonders if this is how Brandon felt, when Lya had been taken.

His wife squeezes his hand. “I know Ned, but trust me, the north is stronger with you here, than without you here.”

“And Robb?” Ned asks. “The King has made our son Hand of the King. Our son who is no older than fifteen namedays, is now the second most powerful man in the realm. I know many will feel jealous at that. And with things being the way they are in the south; I am not sure that is a good idea.”

Catelyn looks up at him inquisitively then. “What would you suggest then Ned? Robb has been given a great honour by the King, your mother is also there in the south with them. Robb spent a long time being taught by Lord Rickard as well, as did the King. I am sure they will be okay. The King would not let anything happen to Robb. Nor would Robb allow anything happen to the King.”

Ned sighs. “I suppose you are right. Still, these sparrows and their leader will not just disappear. They will keep coming back until they are either completely wiped out, or they have destroyed everything.”

His wife looks worried then, and he knows worry for their son is top of the list, though a small part might be due to those doing the destroying. “I am surprised that the High Septon has allowed them to get so out of hand.” His wife says then.

Ned nods, remembering the letter he had received. “I do not think the High Septon has any control over them. I think he is the one being controlled, and as such, is doing everything he can to look the other way.”

His wife sighs. “I suppose then that it will come to something drastic to sort out all that is happening.”

Ned nods. “Indeed, it would seem so.” Deciding to change the subject to something of a more lighter note, Ned says. “I watched Rickon in the training yard today, he is coming on very well. I believe he is better than Robb was at the same age.”

Catelyn smiles and Ned feels as if his breath is being stolen from him. “Oh yes, he keeps practising. I think he’s determined to earn a knighthood before the year is over.”

“Well the way he was hacking away at some of the poor boys in the training yard, he might very well get it.” Ned says, still not sure how he feels about his son wanting to get a knighthood. At that thought he also says. “I got word from Ser Brynden today as well. He writes to say that Bran is doing well, and that he will soon be ready to move back home.”

His wife smiles, he knows how much she has missed their son in the time he has been away. “That is good. I am sure he will be happy to come home.”

Ned nods in agreement, and then asks her. “What about Sansa? Do you think it would be right to ask her to come home? Especially with what is coming in the south? I know she is betrothed to Arthur Lannister, but if things go the way we think they will, perhaps we should ensure she is safe first?”

His wife’s face scrunches in thought then. “I think we should see how things go before making any decision. We must ensure we keep our allies in place as well.”

Ned can see the sense in that, even if he does not completely agree, and so he says. “Very well, let us give it a moon or two, and if things do not seem as if they are not improving then I shall send for her to come back home. I will also need to speak to Lord Jaime, to ensure that we understand one another.”

His wife looks at him curiously. “What do you mean?”

“Lord Jaime has demanded a dowry that was somewhat reasonable in the previous political climate, but as of right now, I think it would be quite unreasonable.” Ned supplies. His wife nods, and they turn and walk from the godswood, back toward the castle proper. As they do, they find Jory running toward them.

“My lord, my lady, thank the gods I found you.” The man says.

“What is it Jory?” Ned asks concern growing within him.

Jory hands him a letter, saying. “This came from the Wall just now. It says that it is quite urgent.”

Ned reads the letter, and then with a sinking sensation in his stomach, turns to his wife and says. “It seems the time has come for the banners to be called. The Wildlings are advancing; the wall will not hold.”


	27. Where To Go?

****

**12 th Month of 298 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Robb Stark**

The Great Sept of Baelor stood tall and imposing on the great hill within King’s Landing. Robb had only been here a few times, he was not much of a believer in the Seven, despising their ceremony and their hypocrisy and preferring the simpler more open style of the Old Gods. Now here he was, to talk some sense into the High Septon, alongside him was Lady Ellaria, the Mistress of Whispers. Robb, takes a breath, the High Septon is a crude man, he dresses in simple robes, but Robb can tell he was once a heckler from a dockside inn. The look is there. Robb takes another breath then speaks. “Your Holiness, thank you for seeing us.” He begins.

“Where is the King?” the man asks, interrupting.

“The King is currently overseeing repairs to the city.” Robb supplies. He decides to push down the anger he feels at being interrupted so, instead he turns their attention to that which he has come to discuss. “Your Holiness, myself and Lady Ellaria have come to talk to you about the Sparrows and the High Sparrow.”

The High Septon becomes quite suspicious then, his shoulders hunching, his breathing come sharper now than it was before. “So the King has sent his barbarian of a cousin and a whore, to question me? The representative of the Seven on this world? How fitting.”

Robb wants to snarl something in response, he knows full well where the High Septon came from, but Lady Ellaria places a hand on his arm and shakes her head. Sighing, Robb looks at the High Septon, then says. “Well Your Holiness, what can you tell us about the Sparrows? They might have been routed out from the capital, but they are all over the place. Why is that?”

The High Septon’s lips curl up into a smirk then. “Because there is a need for them all over the kingdom. The King has fallen victim to a savagery that was previously unknown to any and all. Lord Rickard might have been a good hand, but he was a terrible person to raise a King.”

Anger is growing within Robb, the insult to his grandfather does not sit well, especially coming from this man. “And would you have a mind to tell us why?”

The High Septon smirks. “Because he was a heathen, he believed in worshipping trees. That is not how one is supposed to worship the Seven. There is a reason the south became more developed than the north, after all. So, tell me boy, what do you want from me?”

Now, it really is a struggle to fight the urge to hit the High Septon, the man’s pomposity is getting more and more irritating by the second. “I want to know what you know about the Sparrows. Why are they still around the Kingdoms? You have said that there is a need for them, why?”

“I have already told you that, boy, or are you hard of hearing?” the High Septon quips.

Robb really wants to smack the High Septon, instead he remains calm and says. “What you told me was more of a taunt than an answer. I would like an answer.”

There is a moment of silence as the High Septon stares at him, and then the man speaks. “The Sparrows are growing because there are those amongst the lesser nobility who feel that they can benefit the most from them. The peasants are easy to manipulate, and to turn from one hand to another. If they feel they are being threatened in their way of life, then it is very easy to change them. The Causterian doctrine might be very old, but it was a new way of life to many, and as such it is seen as a threat to their way, and so they side with those who they feel are for them.”

 “And are you amongst their number?” Lady Ellaria asks. “Before you try to deny it, be aware that we know you were hosting meetings with a wide variety of people, including Petyr Baelish.”

Here the High Septon merely laughs. “Ah yes, Baelish. He was an interesting man, very much wanting to aid in the cause. As for the Sparrows in King’s Landing, I admit, I met with them, spoke with them and encouraged them. The old ways must come back, otherwise we shall be felled.”

“By the High Sparrow?” Robb asks. “Does the man have that sort of power?”

The High Septon laughs. “No. The High Sparrow is but a messenger, but those who would come from the top are descending and we do not have the means to handle them as we are now. The Old ways must be brought back, and we must ensure that the kingdoms are united behind them. There can be no Old Gods or Drowned God. There can only be the Seven.”

“Where is the High Sparrow?” Robb demands.

“He is where he needs to be. He is everywhere, and nowhere.” The High Septon answers cryptically.

“That means he is somewhere within the Reach or the Riverlands.” Lady Ellaria says. At the confused look Robb sends her, she elaborates. “The Reach and the Riverlands are the two areas where the Sparrows have been finding the most support amongst the peasantry.”

Robb digests this information, and then turns back to the High Septon. “And you would support this traitor in his quest for an all-out war? Why?”

“Because there is a rot within the Kingdom. A rot that has been allowed to fester since our ancestors came across the narrow sea from Andalos. We are burning and shaking in the dust of the Causterian movement, and now the people are fighting back. There can be no old gods, or drowned god when the darkness descends. It was the light of the Seven that defeated the darkness the first time, and it is only the light united and spread, that can do so again.” The High Septon replies.

“You would sanction a mass war to ensure that something that might or might not happen, does not damage us later?” Robb asks horrified. “You would allow for there to be mass murder, for a probability of a story coming to pass?”

“I would do what was necessary to ensure that the true believers survive. The rest might die.” The High Septon says bullishly. “That is not my problem.”

“You speak treason.” Lady Ellaria says, her voice filled with anger. “But what else is there to expect from a man like yourself. You are nothing without this office. What has the High Sparrow promised you?”

“Glory, the chance to ensure the continuation of the only true faith. The chance to see you all either convert or burn.” The High Septon says, his voice feverish.

“You are mad.” Robb says, standing up then, his hand moving toward the dagger he keeps on his belt.

The High Septon laughs. “I am many things, but I am not a fool. I know what needs to be done. And I shall see it done. Guards.” The man calls out and guards dressed in the plain white of the Septon walk in, their hands on their swords. “See these two out would you.” The guards move towards them, but before they can so much as lay a hand on them, Lady Ellaria has felled them in two quick strokes.

The lady looks at him and says. “We cannot let this man live.”

Robb nods, and not quite believing what he is doing, he moves toward the High Septon, the man merely stares at him and as Robb plunges the knife in again and again, he finds himself wondering what this makes him. Once he is done, they leave the bodies there, and run out as fast as they can, mounting their horses and galloping as far and as fast as they can out of the way and back to the Red Keep, to prepare for the oncoming storm.


	28. Darkness Grows

**1 st Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere Far**

**Leopold**

The city was bustling with activity, but in the city, he was not. The city was where you went if you wanted to die. He did not like the place, but even he would admit that it had its advantages at times. Right now, though, the hut he was in, had all he needed, and as he looks at his master, he bows his head and then says. “The Faith have begun to enact their harsh retribution against the boy King and his northern heavens.”

“The High Septon goaded the woman did he not?” his master asks.

“Yes, he did all that was demanded of him and as such she acted just as you said she would. She got the Stark boy to do as she wanted, and as we wanted.” Leopold replies.

“And who was it who found the body?” master asks.

“Ser Geraint and Ser Théoden. Both of whom are devoted to the High Sparrow.” Leopold says smiling.

“Excellent.” His master says. “You have done very well Leopold.”

“Thank you,” Leopold says smiling. “There is more as well.”

“Go on.” His master says.

“The High Sparrow has urged his followers to attack any and all of the crown’s officials within the Riverlands and the Reach. As such there is chaos spreading as many peasants have taken up the charge. Stark has not been able to leave the Red Keep for a good many weeks now. And as for the King himself, he has taken command of the Great Sept, but there are few who wish to see him there.” Leopold responds.

“And are our men in place?” master asks.

“Yes, they are. They are spread throughout the city, working towards the inevitable goal. They merely wait for the sign.” Leopold states.

“And the woman? Where is she?” master asks.

“She is on Dragonstone, working her way into Prince Viserys’ good books, convincing him of the path he needs to take.” Leopold says.

“Tell her to increase her pace. But do it privately. We cannot have her knowing that we are the ones pushing her.” Master responds.

Leopold nods, he is not quite sure how he will achieve that, but he is confident that he will eventually find a way. He takes a moment to make a mental note of what he should and should not say, once that is done, he looks at his master and asks. “Do you think we should send word to our allies, and ask them to move into position?”

“I have already sent one of them off, to go hunting for the boy who would take his place.” Master says. “He will cause enough of a distraction that the boy King’s friend will not be able to come to his aid, should the darkness come for him. Furthermore, I am not sure that Redwyne would want to side with him quite so readily as his father did.”

“You do not think the presence of Margaery Tyrell would be enough to tempt Redwyne into siding with his cousin’s husband?” Leopold asks stunned. From what he has heard about the Redwyne and Tyrell clans they are a very tightly knit family.

Master shakes his head. “I do believe that the seeds of dissension are being sown. Or have been sown. Redwyne no doubt believes, as does everyone in the Reach that they are entitled to more power than they currently have. And so, he will do something to try and make that happen. The more he strains, the more the boy King will resist. And the more aggrieved he will become.”

“And then we shall plant the seeds of his destruction?” Leopold asks, he has been nursing a grievance against the Redwynes since he was old enough to understand just what a grievance was.

Master places a hand on his arm and nods. “Yes. The seeds will be planted, and Redwyne will, like the fool he is, lead himself down the path toward complete destruction.”

Leopold smiles. “Very good master.” A pause, the silence settles over them, down below, the people of the city hum and speak in a thousand different tongues. Leopold listens to them, picking out words he understands, and making note of words that he does not understand. Soon enough he will need to venture into that place, and he will need to do something that he does not like.

“Ellaria Sand will no doubt be coming back to Essos.” Master says suddenly, breaking the silence.

“Do you think the boy King would let her go so easily?” Leopold asks. “I would have thought he would keep her close by, to ensure that her information was simply for him and not for her own grudge.”

“I believe that it is exactly because of that grudge that the boy King will let her go. He needs her focused, and she has never recovered from the murder of her lover. Illyrio Mopatis died and yet I know she is angry still. She will need to sate more bloodlust.” Master says.

Hesitantly, Leopold asks. “And how will we encourage her to do that?”

“By placing the targets right in front of her. She wants the other person that Mopatis is known for working with. We shall place him in front of her, and lead her down the path of no return.” Master responds.

“But she did not go down the path when she killed Mopatis. How do we know she will do so now?” Leopold questions.

Master smiles. “Because she is a different person now. Then, she was aggrieved and she wanted revenge, so once she got it she stopped. Now however, there is nothing stopping her rage, and so we shall play on that, and show her for the vengeance hungry woman she is.”

Leopold nods, he feels nervous about this, playing with that fire, might not end well, but he knows not to question Master, especially now. Instead he asks. “Where shall we find Mopatis’ friend? The man has been hiding for so long now, I do not know if he can be found.”

Master smiles. “He is within the city. I know for a certainty that he will be making a journey further northwards soon. He wishes to put his own plans into place, and we shall ensure that he is given a chance to do so. However, we shall also make sure that he does not come too close to succeeding, we must ensure that Ellaria Sand knows where and how to find him.”

“And how will we do that Master?” Leopold asks.

Master smiles. “You shall travel to our friends within the Sunset City, and inform them of where the man is. And from there, we shall watch the world unfurl.” Leopold nods, though he does not feel so confident, still, he bows, and soon enough he finds himself on a ship, bound for where the sun rises and sets. Westeros.


	29. Missing Signs

**1 st Month of 299 A.C. Casterly Rock**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

His sister was still beautiful, though childbirth was slowly beginning to take a toll on her, or rather was that her plotting? He was not sure. All he knew was that he no longer found her as attractive to him, as he once had. Ashara far outstripped her in smarts and kindness, Cersei was never kind, not unless she wanted something. He looks at her now and speaks. “So, sister, tell me, how would you handle the situation within, with the Faith?” His sister is never one who is shy to give her opinion, and Jaime wonders where her thinking is going now.

“I would have them all hung, if they dared to speak out against me. I do not tolerate disobedience.” Cersei says simply.

Jaime laughs softly, Ashara smiling at his side. Of course, Cersei would say something like that, she has always been somewhat slow to understand changing tides. “And you would ignore the fact that these are supposedly holy men, who are merely doing the work of the Gods?”

Cersei seemingly hesitates then. She has cultivated an image of being incredibly pious over the past few years, no doubt done, to try and contrast herself with Ashara’s bluntness. But now, now she has been caught out. “If they are doing things that call into question their allegiance, then yes, I would.”

Jaime keeps his breathing even, even though there is a growing anger in him. He knows full well that his sister has not been doing what she has advised him to do, she has not even been bothering. And so, it is with some great pleasure that he asks her. “And what about Septon Dunsen and Septon Messange?”

His sister does not even blink. “What about them?”

“Do not play games with me, Cersei.” Jaime snaps. “We both know that you have been using both of those Septons to spread some sort of virile about myself and Ashara. I want to know why.”

His sister looks like she has been caught in the storm. “I have done no such thing.”

Jaime looks at his sister, and then to Ashara, who unfurls a piece of paper and begins speaking. “On the fourth day, Septon Dunsen spoke to a crowd of twenty men within Lannisport, to speak of the treasonous behaviours of Lady Ashara Dayne, and how she had cuckholded her husband, Lord Jaime, with her brother Ser Arthur. Septon Messange, then claimed that all good men of Faith would take up arms, to free their lord from the spells of a wicked witch.” Ashara falls silent, though Jaime can feel her anger emanating off of her, he takes her hand under the table, and she continues. “On the seventh day, the Lady Cersei appeared with her husband, and spoke of how she was grieving for her falling family. She believed that the Lady Ashara was evil, and was someone who was a threat to the Faith. Both Septons were then seen speaking with the Lady, to ensure that they stuck with the message.”

His sister’s eyes have widened comically, and Jaime can hear her breathing coming in thick and fast. Her denial is quick off the tongue. “I did not say those things. Those are things that someone has made up.”

“Cersei, enough.” Jaime replies, yawning slightly. “Tell me, why are you having these people say these things? And before you deny it, I have had people watching you for the past few moons, they all say the same thing. You are always meeting with these two, and other, less savoury characters. I would know why.”

Cersei’s eyes have widened to a worrying proportion now, and Jaime is somewhat glad her husband is not here, if that smug fool was here, Jaime likely would’ve knocked him out by now. Eventually, Cersei speaks, her voice strained. “I…I…I was merely trying to protect the family.”

“How?” Jaime demands. “How was spreading these vicious lies about my family, about my wife, an attempt to protect the family? Tell me honestly!”

“The High Sparrow has gotten so much support in the Reach and the Riverlands, I was trying to pre-empt him getting support here, by giving the people a visible target to blame for when things start going bad.” Cersei explains hurriedly.

“The economy of the Westerlands has grown sevenfold in the past decade.” Jaime says, his voice laced with anger. “The people of the West are seeing more money come into their pockets than they ever did under father. So, tell me Cersei, were you really doing that? Or were you doing it for your own selfish reasons?”

“I was doing it for the family!” Cersei pleads. “Please, Jaime, you have to believe me!”

Jaime stares at his sister, wondering how he could have ever loved her. How he could have ever believed that she was a decent person. He sighs, his shoulders slumping and then straightening up once more. “You will go and speak with your two Septons, and you will give them information about a plot against their lives. If they have any sense, they shall leave for the furthest place from here. If they do not, then I will kill them myself. As for you, you shall retire to the Crag, and you shall not return until such time as I have dealt with your mess. Your children shall stay here.”

Cersei’s mouth drops open then. “You cannot be serious!”

“I am.” Jaime replies bullishly. “Now, get up and leave. I want you gone before the sun sets tonight.” His sister reluctantly rises and curtseys before she leaves the room. Once she is gone, Jaime turns to Ashara and says. “She is going to try something before she leaves.”

Ashara nods. “I agree, but what do you think she will do?”

Jaime runs a hand through his hair. “I do not know. I think she might well try and organise something with her husband. He has connections with all kinds of unsavoury people, and as such I think we will need to be guard for the next few days.” He has already given the orders to the guards, they are to watch his sister like lions’ stalk their prey. And the guards are watching their children as well, hopefully this will dissuade Cersei from doing something too stupid. But knowing her, it could go either way.

Ashara does not need to ask if he has arranged proper protection, she knows him well enough to know that he has. Instead she says. “We should send her on her way to the Silent Sisters.”

Jaime laughs. “I would my love, but she’d likely try and escape, and then I’d have to kill her. And if I can, I’d like to avoid doing that. She might be many things, but she is still my sister, and I am no kinslayer.”


	30. Break

**2 nd Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

There was a quietness at this time of day that Jonothor really liked. It was just after lunch, when everyone was going about their business, or they were sleeping. As a child, he’d greatly enjoyed the thought of being able to enjoy this time to wander the Red Keep, then as he’d gotten older, and girls had gotten more interesting, he’d used it to explore them. Now, now, he was with his wife, and they were much involved. Lying by her side, catching his breath, he pants. “Robb says that the takeover of the Great Sept of Baelor by the Causterians was successful.”

His wife smiles. “That is brilliant news. At least now that means the heart of the Faith is truly yours.”

Jonothor takes his wife’s hand and says. “It is ours my love. For what is mine is yours.”

His wife’s smile gets bigger. “Of course. So, who will you name as the new High Septon?”

At this Jonothor grimaces. “I am not sure I will name a new one.”

“Oh? Why is that?” His wife asks.

“Well, look at the last few people who have taken the role. One was murdered, another died suspiciously, and then the third, well the third needed to die. I think it might be better to just take control of the Faith completely.” Jonothor responds.

Jonothor glances over at his wife, and sees her lips pursed in thought. “That would make sense, after all since the reign of Jaehaerys the Wise, the Faith has been little more than a Targaryen puppet. It would make more sense to simply do what has been true for a long time.”

Jonothor smiles, he knew Margaery would understand, she always seemed to. It was one of the many things he loves about her. His smile disappears though when he thinks about the rest of the news, that had come with Robb’s little announcement. “Whilst that is good, it seems there are still fools within the realm who wish for the continued corruption of the Faith.”

His wife sits up then and looks at him curiously. “What’s happened?”

“Fighting has broken out in the Riverlands, it seems the peasants there are more prone to fitful flights of fancy than we thought. Lord Edmure and his allies are having a bit of difficulty keeping them in line. Furthermore, the Stormlands is under chaos as well. Lord Renly is struggling to keep a lid on everything. I am not sure how long he can manage.” Jonothor responds.

“And the Vale?” Margaery asks.

“Surprisingly quiet. Considering how devout the lords and ladies there are, I would’ve thought that it would be one of the first places to fall victim toward this chaos. But it seems Jasper is doing something right.” Jonothor says, unable to keep some of the bitterness from his voice.

“Or Baelish is the one pulling the strings.” Margaery suggests.

Jonothor runs a hand through his hair and exhales. “Do you think the man really has that much power over Jasper? When he was here, Jasper claimed to hate the man.”

Margaery grabs his hand and runs a soothing sensation through him. “Of course he did. The man was trying to take his Mother away from his Father and him, but now his Mother is gone, the man is the last link to his Mother. He’s not going to head over to Winterfell, and I think coming to King’s Landing would be too painful for him. Baelish will be working on him.”

“So what am I supposed to do?” Jonothor asks, hating how helpless he sounds and feels. “I cannot simply allow a man like Baelish to remain in the Vale, able to plot heavens knows what. He has to be brought to justice.”

“Baelish will make a mistake, my love.” Margaery says. “He is the sort of person who cannot be out of the spotlight for too long. Sooner or later he will make a move and with Lady Ellaria working hard, as is her way, we will know about it, long before he would’ve wanted us to. That is when one can strike.”

Jonothor nods, he does not quite know when the man will make his move, or if he will ever make it, but he knows he cannot worry about something he does not know. He can only think about what is to come from what he knows. And it is with that in mind that he says. “There has been word from your brother as well.”

His wife straightens up then and asks. “What has he said?”

Jonothor loves that he does not even need to say which brother has written, for her to know that he means Willas. Sometimes, he wonders what it would be like to have that relationship with someone of his blood. He’s close to Robb and to Viserys and Daenerys, but to have his own true brothers and sisters, wouldn’t that be something? Still, he shakes his head slightly and says. “It seems that the Causterians and the Traditionalists are getting their arms together in the Reach. This time the nobles are the ones who are getting ready to fight, not the peasants.”

His wife sighs. “So Father has been unable to contain the fools who would dance around and try and make something out of nothing then?”

“It would appear so. Then again, there are some very lords with very forthright opinions. No major lords are siding with the traditionalists, but the minor lords are making up a large number.” Jonothor says. “And it appears that your lord Father is somewhat reluctant to deal with them completely.”

“No doubt he is concerned about some foolish thing or the other.” Margaery replies. “I will write to him and see if I can get to the bottom of his worries.”

Jonothor smiles, briefly pressing a kiss to her lips and then he pulls back. He runs a hand through his hair and then says. “Well, I had best be off. Viserys wants me to meet with some woman he brought back from his travels in Essos.” At his wife’s raised eyebrow, he laughs. “I think she’s his mistress. So most definitely not someone I will be looking at anyway.”

His wife laughs alongside him and then she kisses him again and says softly. “Alright my love. I shall see you later. Don’t be late for our dinner. I have something very special planned.” At her raised eyebrows, Jonothor feels his breath hitch a little.

“I will keep an eye on the time.” He responds, before kissing her once more and then hurrying out of the room and towards whatever nonsense his uncle wants to discuss.


	31. Discourse

**2 nd Month of 299 A.C. Castle Black**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

It seems as if snow falls at Castle Black all year round. The last time he’d been here, the snow was beginning to fall, and now, well now the ground was covered in it. This was not winter snow though, merely summer snow, as the land adjusted and prepared for autumn. The solar of the Lord Commander was warm at least, there was a fire burning in the hearth, and Bowen Marsh sat before him. Ned takes a moment and then speaks. “So tell me Lord Commander, how did your predecessor die? Your letter was not the clearest, the last time I read it.”

The Lord Commander looks somewhat like a frog from the neck, but he speaks softly all the same. “My predecessor led a ranging beyond the Wall, he was trying to see what was causing the Wildlings to disappear from their villages. Our rangers had reported masses of empty villages and settlements north of here. He led the ranging, and then as they were returning, they were attacked.”

“Attacked by what? Wildlings?” Ned asks. “If it was the wildlings, how were they caught off guard?”

The Lord Commander shakes his head. “Not wildlings my lord. What the things were that attacked them were, we do not know, but one of the few who came back had this with them.” The Lord Commander places a horn on the table, and Ned stares at it horrified.

“Do you know what that is?” he asks.

The Lord Commander shakes his head. “No. But I know that it is not an animal we’ve seen here for hundreds of years.”

Ned nods, he thinks he knows exactly what that horn is from, and the thought of those things coming south terrifies him. Deciding that the time is not right to focus on that, he instead asks. “So do you know what else was found on the ranging?”

The Lord Commander is silent for a brief moment and then he says. “From what I have been able to gather from the three men who survived, the wildlings are moving further north, it seems they are being marshalled by Mance Rayder and his allies. As the letter, I sent you said, the Wildlings were coming down south in great numbers, and a band of them tried to attack the wall, a few days before you arrived. We managed to beat them back, but not before we suffered significant losses ourselves.”

“How many men do you have of fighting capability?” Ned asks, he knows that the Watch has always suffered from a chronic lack of good men to man its walls, but he’d tried to rectify that problem in the past few years.

“I’d say around one hundred here, and perhaps thirty across the other two castles.” The Lord Commander says.

That surprises Ned. “So few?”

“Yes, it would seem that the Wildlings knew exactly where to go when they attacked. Furthermore, a good portion of men were lost during the ranging.” The Lord Commander says.

Ned considers this, his breathing steadying out. “I’ve brought around twelve thousand men with me. I can send around two thousand toward Eastwatch, and another two thousand toward the Shadow Tower. But, I think keeping the majority of my forces here, at Castle Black makes the most sense.”

The Lord Commander nods. “I agree, my lord. The Wildlings attacked The Shadow Tower because it was easy to attack, but they will come for Castle Black next, as it is the main entrance way toward the south.”

Ned nods. “Very well. Do your scouts know the exact location of the Wildlings, and how great their number is?”

The Lord Commander’s chest expands and then crawls back in. “We do not no. The wildlings have become very good and moving and hiding from our eyes, and they kill any of the scouts that we might think of sending out. As such, we are thinking that they might have taken entire tribes with them, if the number of abandoned villages is anything to go by.”

Ned thinks over this, running a hand through his beard, eventually he says. “I think it would be wise to send a small group of men out on a patrol, to get the rough idea of where the Wildlings might be coming from. We know they are coming from the north, but knowing where exactly in the north they are coming from would be of great benefit.”

The Lord Commander opens his mouth, then closes it, then opens it once more. “I agree my lord. How many men would you recommend sending out?”

Ned thinks over this for a moment, they need to be careful, they can’t risk alerting the wildlings to their actions, but they cannot go in blind. He ponders the issue for a long time, or at least that’s what it feels like. Eventually, he says. “I’d say send out around fifty men. To ensure that no matter what happens out there, someone gets back and reports.” Something that would be especially useful, if they were out there.

The Lord Commander nods. “I will give command to Mallister.”

Ned nods. “My brother, Benjen, shall go with you as well.” He could trust Benjen and inform him of what he thought was happening.

The Lord Commander seems to accept this, and just as he goes to say something, a horn sounds somewhere in the distance. It sounds once, rangers returning, there is a pause, and Marsh stands up. He walks to the door; Ned stands with him. Curious to see who it could be, then the horn sounds again, wildlings. They hurry out of the room and move quickly toward the walls, the whole place is filled with people, moving and acting on impulse. The wildlings are coming quickly now, the men are on the walls, preparing to fire and to unleash hell. But as Ned gets onto the wall, he sees something horrifying, something he thought was merely the thing of stories. He sees the wildlings being swept away under a tide of white, a tide of blue death. He has no idea what he is seeing, the wildlings are there one moment, and the next they are gone.

As he stands there watching horrified, he hears the horn sound for a third time. And he closes his eyes, how is this possible? He thought they were nothing more than a story. Ned stares out into the land beyond the wall, and he sees the thing, the things of nightmares, giant spiders clawing their way through the ground, digging roots out and destroying the wildlings. Then he sees them. Cloaked in white and blue, ice in their veins, ice in their eyes. The walking, living death that terrified his ancestors. They return and the howling begins.


	32. Backstreets

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. Myr**

**Lady Ellaria Sand**

The streets of Myr bustled with activity, there were myriad people here, selling clothes and other items that the people here wanted to buy. There were slaves wandering the streets as well, leading the way for their masters, and pretending not to be slipping instructions to one another. Myr would come alive tonight, that much Ellaria knew, how it happened, she did not much care. So long as the Westerosi hold over Tyrosh and Lys remained secure, they would be fine. She keeps walking, turning down one narrow street, onto another. As the noise from the streets dims, she comes to a red door, the walls are painted brown and black. She stops before the door, knocks twice, and waits. Eventually, the door opens and a slave gestures for her to walk inside.

Ellaria takes a few steps into the house, before coming to a chair, knowing how her host likes her to be, she sits down in the chair and waits. The slave pours her a drink of mulled wine, and gives her some sweets on a plate to eat, as she waits. The moments drift by, but she is fine with that, the longer she waits, the more information her host will have for her. Just as her cup is halfway empty, the host walks in. Short, stocky with dark hair, her host is Magister Qohor, a man of some repute within Myr, and someone she has worked with for many a year now. The man smiles, and kisses her outstretched hand. “Lady Ellaria, a pleasure to see you again. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Ellaria smiles at the man, knowing that he does not like much of the flattery that would usually happen. “I have come to ask a few things from you.”

The man sits down in a chair opposite her and nods. “Yes, I suspected you would. Tell me, your King, how is he handling the Faith?”

Ellaria is not surprised Qohor knows about that, the man has as many ears and eyes as she does. “He is handling it well enough. He has taken control of the Home of the Faith, but there is division amongst them as to what to do next. Tell me, was it Moqorro or Benerro who instructed this madness?”

Qohor laughs. “My sources tell me that they are too busy trying to ensure that their new empire remains strong. They do not have the ability to orchestrate something on this magnitude. Whoever it is that is organising it all, has clearly watched how everything is done within Westeros and is playing on the fears of the Faith. Tell me Ellaria, how is it that you did not see this coming?”

Ellaria feels somewhat embarrassed. “I saw certain things coming, and I took steps to prevent them from happening. The fact that the war is not more spread is because I ensured that Arryn was not there when it all went southwards. The High Septon died under my instruction. But he only came to power because I did not think the fools would directly attack a Targaryen.”

Qohor sighs. “I thought I taught you better than that Ellaria. A Targaryen in the Faith was always going to breed trouble, why do you think Jaehaerys the Wise’s children never lived for long if they were in the Faith? And having one as High Septon, and as leader of such a strand as the Causterian movement? Now that was just asking for trouble. I would have thought you’d have seen that.”

Defensively Ellaria responds. “I did not think that the entirety of the Most Devout would have changed toward traditionalism! I had thought we had been successful in ensuring that the Causterians were dominating that institution. Evidently I was wrong and now we are paying the price for that.”

Qohor nods. “Indeed you are. And tell me, have you come to ensure that I can help you deal with them, or have you come for another reason?”

Ellaria hesitates, her tutor has always known more about her than she had ever let on, it was why he was so very good at what he did. She shifts around a little and then eventually says. “I’ve come to ask if you have heard any other whispers.”

Qohor is silent, his chest moving up and down as he considers what Ellaria has said. A moment passes, then another, before Qohor speaks. “I have heard many things. You might wish to be more specific as to which you wish to know.”

“Pentos has been in chaos ever since I did what I did. I want to know if a rat has emerged from within the shadows since then.” Ellaria says bluntly.

Qohor laughs. “Tell me, does your King know that you have come here asking for this? Or have you come here on your own?”

“The King has told me to do whatever I need to do to ensure that the realm is safe. Hence I am here.” Ellaria responds.

Qohor takes a deep breath, and calls for his slave to bring him some papers. When the papers are given to him, he unfurls them and points to a specific location. “The rat you are looking for has spent the past five years gathering swords and money at The Den of Snakes. He has gathered many former allies of the Targaryens, through trickery and treachery, and he has groomed his chosen King as best as he can. Whatever else you might think, I tell you this now, be careful, be very careful when you go and seek him. He is seen as the King’s right hand, and he will have more power in that one gesture, than anything else.”

“How would you recommend I deal with him then?” Ellaria asks. “After all, I know I will be outnumbered, but I need to do something.”

Qohor laughs. It is a deep rattling laugh, one that gives away his age and frailty. “I would not go after him in this situation, I would wait for him to move from where he is, no matter how long it took him to do so. However, I know that you do not have that sort of patience. Therefore, all I will say is that you will need an in. A member of the company will need to be your way in.”

“Which member?” Ellaria asks.

“Rivers. He is the one most likely to fall for you. Ensure you get to know him before you sleep with him first though.” Qohor supplies.

Ellaria nods, kisses Qohor’s cheek and then says. “Thank you for this.” The man nods and she leaves his house, walking through the streets, towards the ship that waits for her. As before, she slips on unnoticed and pays the captain a hefty sum to get her to the Den, and the slithery hive of villainy that awaits her there.


	33. Hand

**3 rd Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Robb Stark**

Council was in session, and as such, Robb knew he had the duty of speaking first. Only Lady Ellaria was not present, away doing business for the crown. Robb would’ve liked her to be here, he liked her, and she was a reassuring presence. Regardless, he takes a breath then speaks. “Your Grace, my lords, troubling news has come forth from the Riverlands. It appears that the Riverlords who are siding with the traitorous separatists in the Faith fought a battle in the Riverlands that saw Lord Edmure slain and his force routed. Riverrun is now currently under siege.”  When word had reached him of this, he was terrified, there was something about this that did not seem right.

The King is the one who speaks first. “Who are the traitors who are supporting these fools?”

Robb takes a breath then says. “Bracken, Vance, Vyrwel and some minor houses. Bracken is the one likely providing the rebels with the greatest amount of support.”

“Financial as well as martial?” the King asks.

“Yes Your Grace. Most of the men laying siege to Riverrun are armoured knights and professional soldiers. The peasants were slain but more are joining the ranks every day.” Robb responds.

“How long could Riverrun hold out? And who commands the garrison there?” the King enquires.

“At least a year, perhaps more. But I do not think they could withstand a two-sided siege. Reports are coming in of fighting in the Westerlands that is threatening to break out into the Riverlands as well.” Robb points out.

The King looks contemplative then. “Very well, I want word sent out to the lords of the Crownlands. Robb, you will command this host, and march out for Stone Hedge, draw Bracken away from Riverrun and ensure that he is defeated.”

Robb nods relieved, he has been afraid that the King would suggest inaction for the time being. “And what of the defences of the city? We know that things are progressing within the capital, but the Faith might still try something.” Robb asks.

The King sighs. “I know, and yet we cannot afford to allow Riverrun to remain under siege, especially not from Bracken. What happened to Blackwood I would’ve thought he’d be one of the first to fight Bracken and Stone Hedge?”

Robb exhales, then speaks. “Blackwood and his sons fought Bracken and his army of zealots and they suffered heavily. Blackwood and three of his sons were killed. One of them was dragged off his horse and butchered. They are struggling to hold together Raventree Hall. I think we shall need to count them out of this.”

The King looks dejected at this, whilst Grand Maester Ebrose speaks. “At least the rebels have now given us something to work with.” At their confused looks, he elaborates. “By being so non-chivalric, they have fallen into a trap. We can now show them as nothing more than savages, the very thing they are accusing the King of being. And they would have no leg to stand on and deny it.”

Robb seizes on this. “Maester Ebrose is right Your Grace. With the right amount of leg room and the right amount of portrayals, we can finally hit the rebels where it hurts them, amongst the peasantry.”

The King rests a hand atop his wine cup, glances at Ser Baelor Hightower and then says. “That would make all the sense in the world. Ser Baelor, tell me, what do you think?”

Hightower takes a brief moment to speak, his eyes moving back and forth between the King and something unseen in the room, then he speaks. “I think the move, to be a very wise one Sire. I think that we have enough funds to make a convincing show of it all. The plays and the songs that could be made of this would need to be done in exactly the right light. And I know just the people to do it.”

The King nods happy. “Good, then see it done.” A momentary silence follows, as they all consider what this now means. The King then speaks, breaking the silence. “Tell me, what word has there been from the Starry Sept, are those fools any closer to deciding what they want?”

Ser Baelor speaks then, his voice commanding. “The Septons and Septas at the Starry Sept are doing what they’ve done since Aegon the Conqueror came to Westeros. They are sitting on their hands, watching the world burn and doing nothing. They are in denial, they accepted change when it came, and now they are accepting this. They have no spine, and no forethought. The Most Devout are dead, or are bleeding into the ground. The chance for a completely new system is there for the taking.”

“I would urge caution before taking a large step Sire.” Ebrose says. “Many are not familiar with change, and as such this current war can be seen as a result of the change that came during the regency.”

“Would you advise the King to simply sit and watch as these things go by unnoticed and unacted?” Robb asks curious. “The King has a chance here to bring real change and real development to the Faith and to Westeros. Something that we all agree should’ve been done during the reign of Daeron the Good. That it was not done then, well that is in the past, but with the opportunity being out there now, surely we are duty bound to seize it. The Queen is with child, we have chances.”

“I am not suggesting that the King does nothing. I am merely suggesting that he takes his time in the implementation of those changes. Already the first step has been made. Baelor’s Sept is the crown’s property now. After this, and after Riverrun has been relieved, that is when I would advise setting up the other affairs.” Ebrose says.

Throughout all of this, the King has remained silent, watching, observing, doing the things that for all intents and purposes remind Robb of their grandsire. Now, however, he speaks. “I can see where you are all coming from. However, I believe that the time to put an end to the rebels’ belligerence has come.” A pause, a beat, then. “Robb, I want you to put forward a call for an election of the new High Septon, and then I want a declaration issued. From this day, forth, I am the Head of the Faith, and I decide who can and cannot renounce themselves from it.”

Robb can see the disapproval in Ebrose’s eyes, but he is quite happy with this. And so, he says. “Of course Your Grace.” He makes a note of it, and the council meeting comes to an end. Progress, has finally been made.

 


	34. Fighting Rocks

**4 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Westerlands**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

The only useful piece of advice his father had ever given him, was that once a peasant was given an idea, or an inkling of their importance they would do all they could to reinforce that image of themselves. Regardless of the order they disrupted, or the chaos they caused, or the people they killed. There was nothing more dangerous than the rule of the mob, and right now the rebel traitors who were causing chaos throughout the realm were exactly that. Their leader was hiding somewhere, and the lords of the realm were forced to handle the chaos. The peasants of the West had for a large part remained loyal, but there was a growing number of them who were causing issues. Lord Crakehall and his sons had been attacked as they rode toward the Rock, and there were rumours of a large band of peasants and bandits banding together under the banner of a man known simply as the crow, at Tarbeck. As Lord of the West, Jaime had summoned men and ridden off as quickly as he could.

Jaime risks a quick glance to his right, his son and heir Arthur is by his side, decked out in new armour, gold and shining. He looks a true knight, more than Jaime ever did. Together they ride toward whatever might face them, be it five hundred peasants or five thousand, the peasants will not be well equipped to fight an armed and mounted force, no doubt they will scatter when they see them. At least, that is what Jaime hopes will happen, whether that actually happens he does not know. Peasants can often be quite stupid when they are grouped together in a rabble. He’d seen it often enough as a member of the Kingsguard. The things he’d thought he’d have to do during the rebellion still haunt him. He closes his eyes for a moment, allowing his natural instincts to guide them, he opens them when his horse stops. His son looks at him in question, he says nothing, only signals for them to place their helmets on and to raise their guard. It is now a question of waiting, the archers, their archers, lurk in the background ready to spring into action in a moment’s notice.

They do not have to wait long, they soon hear the peasants marching, singing songs. Jaime grimaces a little under his helm. The peasants come into view, some three thousand of them he thinks. They stop and one of their number calls out. “Who the bleeding hell are you?”

Jaime snorts. “I am Jaime Lannister, Lord of Casterly Rock, Lord Paramount of the Westerlands and Warden of the West. I have come to order you to disperse. You are breaking the King’s peace.”

The man who had spoken, seemingly the leader laughs, a great booming sound, that reminds him of Robert Baratheon. “We’re here in the name of the High Sparrow and the Seven. Not some bastard born King.”

Jaime feels his hand tense. “I’ll give you one last chance. Leave now, disperse and return back to your homes and nothing will happen.”

The man’s expression hardens and he places his staff down into the ground. “And if we do not leave? What will you do then?”

Jaime sighs, he had not wanted it to come to this, but if it has to, then it has to. “Then you will not leave this field alive.” The man before him snorts, but Jaime merely looks toward where Captain Valar rests with the archers, he raises a hand, the archers get into position, and then Jaime lowers his hand. The arrows begin flying. The archers of the Westerlands are some of the best archers in the whole of Westeros, and they never miss their mark. They do not do so now either. In the chaos that comes from this, the peasants are killed in their dozens before they think to bring their shields up and still some of their number fall to arrow fire. Jaime calls a halt to proceedings, and then barks out. “You have been warned. Now surrender or die.”

A lone spear soars out of the crowd of dead bodies to raucous cheering from the side it came from. Jaime sighs. He barks out commands, the archers are there to protect them now, but the time has come for the cavalry of the Westerlands to prove its mettle. He leads the charge, Arthur at his side. They ride hard, and when they hit the Peasants, their sheer force destroys the front two lines, their lances taking the next few lines as well. The screams echo in the air, Jaime knows this will haunt him for the rest of the year, but he cannot think on that now. He keeps one eye open for his son, Arthur is there cutting and slicing, his lance long abandoned. It does not take long for the pile of bodies to continue to grow. They move, dancing and slicing, the enemy is nothing. Ill equipped, and ill prepared, the peasants fall down hard.

The fighting turns into a bloody slaughter soon enough, there are hacks and cuts, bruises are given and received, Jaime always keeps an eye out for his son, ensuring the boy does nothing too reckless, he remembers what he was like at that age. The peasants are folding under their own inexperience and the weight of blows coming their way. Bodies grow higher and higher, spears, scythes, ploughs, bill hooks, all the things that the peasants used are left abandoned on the field. Some unfortunate soldiers fall victim to them, but most do not. Jaime’s sword drips down onto the ground, covering the ground in red, and adding more darkness to the world. Eventually the peasants begin running away, putting down their weapons and running as hard and as fast as they can. Jaime would order his men to chase after them, but if he is being honest, he does not think they are worth the effort. Instead, he watches them go, accepting the surrender of any of the smart ones, and being led toward the former leader of the group. The man is big, black of hair and beard, blue of eye, he could almost look like a Baratheon if one were to think that way. Jaime looks at him from atop his horse and asks. “Who is the Crow?”

The man spits out blood, coughs then replies. “The coming of the end.” The man says no more, and so Jaime sees no reason to keep him alive. The man dies with a spear through his throat.

Much later, Jaime will learn where the Crow is said to be residing and so he will command his army towards that location, using Lord Banefort to call upon the spirits to handle those less inclined to peaceful surrender.


	35. Lost and Confused

**4 th Month of 299 A.C. Castle Black**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

The memories of what had happened before his very eyes, stopped him from sleeping almost every night. He was dishevelled and restless. The things he had thought merely out of an old story or fairy tale, were real enough, and they had killed so many people. The echoes of the wildlings screams echoed throughout his mind and those of his companions. And yet somehow they had survived. How that had happened he did not know, but it was why he had called the meeting with Lord Commander Marsh and Grand Maester Aemon, he wanted, and needed to understand more.

He takes a breath, looks at both men and then speaks. “The White Walkers have returned. We all know this; we all saw them or heard them when the wildlings came scampering down to try and attack the wall. What I want to know is, how has something this big managed to keep itself hidden for so long? And how are they still alive, when they were supposed to have died a long time ago?”

The Lord Commander is honest. He shrugs his shoulders and says. “I do not know my lord. All I know is what I saw.”

Ned nods, he accepts that from a man such as Marsh, but the Maester? He knows Aemon is supposed to be very knowledgeable, and is indeed knowledgeable, if anyone would know what is going on, it should be him. “Maester?” he asks.

The Maester shifts slightly in his chair then responds. “I believe that the White Walkers were never truly slain. All the myths and legends speak of they were defeated, never that they were slain completely. And if they were indeed slain, then it is very possible that they have returned, gradually and over time.”

“But how? What could’ve caused them to return?” Ned asks.

He expects the Maester to reply saying that he does not know, and so is surprised when the man says. “The chaos that has come from the past three hundred years.”

“What do you mean?” Ned asks.

The Maester shifts once more, his seat creaking slightly as he does so. “Think about it my lord. Three hundred years ago, or near about, Aegon the Conqueror landed in Westeros and united the Seven Kingdoms behind him. Before that, for thousands of years the Kingdoms had been warring with one another, constantly. Be it under the First Men, or under the Andals. They remained separate and continued fighting. Then someone comes along and unites the kingdoms, behind him, using his force, dragons and magic. Think about the changes that would’ve caused, think about the changes that would’ve come in the years that followed. When the dragons died, it is agreed the magic died with them. From what I have heard and read, it seems that magic was the key to ensuring nothing like the Long Night happened again. And so long as people remembered, the White Walkers could not come forth. But people forgot, as did the Night’s Watch.”

Ned hears what the man says, and he wants to dismiss it, he wants to call it nothing more than the mutterings of some old forgotten tome, but he cannot. He cannot dismiss it, because he has heard it before. He knows about the horns, and their meaning, and he cannot dismiss something like this, and so he finds himself asking. “What do we do then?” His memory shows him the images of the dead wildlings rising up and killing their kin and friends. He sees them moving toward the wall and being thrown back by something or the other. “How do we defeat a foe that can raise the dead, and cannot be destroyed by anything?”

The Maester sits there in contemplative silence and then says. “I shall need to do more investigations into this my lords. I will need some time. But I think I know where to start.” The man falls silent then, and does not elaborate.

Ned turns to the Lord Commander and says. “We shall need to find out more about where the wildlings found such a large herd of White Walkers. I am not convinced that that was all of them.” In the back of his mind, he thinks that the things of his nightmares will be coming southwards as well, soon enough.

The Lord Commander nods. “Of course, we shall need to perhaps go on another ranging, the one we had planned before the attack itself had happened. And we shall need to find those wildlings that fled.”

“What would you suggest doing with them?” Ned asks. “They are great in number, and let us be frank my lord Commander, there is nowhere near enough space at the Wall to fit them all and supply goods for them.”

The Lord Commander’s face twitches, and he looks decidedly uncomfortable. “I do not know my lord. We cannot leave them out there to die, and be used against us. But neither can we allow them to settle here, that would break our oaths. I suppose for now we shall need to take that issue to the side and discuss other things.”

Ned nods, though he suspects that this issue will come back to bite them, and hard. “We shall need to consider the most appropriate times for such a ranging to go ahead. When the White Walkers attacked first, it was either morning, or late evening, if I am frank I cannot recall specifically. And then when they came again, with more wildlings, it was late at night. That would suggest, that they work best in the darkness, and that when the light shines they are weak. We can use that.”

The Lord Commander nods. “I agree. But then, that raises the question, how far do we have the rangings go if we are limited by the turning of the sun and the moon? We would not have enough time to get everything we need done.”

 Ned takes a deep breath. “We would first need to know what it is we need to do. It is one thing to say that we need to go out and do this, and another to know exactly what we are doing it for.”

The Lord Commander does not look too happy about this, if the scrunching of his face is any indication. Still he sighs and says. “Well, we need to find out what the Wildlings know, if there are any wildlings left at all, and we also need to know where the White Walkers are coming from.”

“I agree. Those are the things we need to know. Now that we know that, we can plan accordingly. I think we should send out three rangings, to ensure that we get the best information we can. Using the previously agreed leaders for the first ranging.” Ned suggests.

The Lord Commander nods. “Very well. When do you wish for the ranging to leave?”

“In three days time. We must act quickly.” Ned replies.


	36. Mountains

**5 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Prince Viserys Targaryen**

“The girl has given birth to a boy.” Viserys fumes, the cup of wine held tightly in his hand. “You promised me that this would not happen, you told me that you had done things to ensure that it would not happen. And yet, now it has happened. Tell me Lady Melisandre, why is that?”

The lady, with her hair like fire says nothing for a long moment, then she speaks. “It is the way these things go sometimes.”

Viserys clenches the cup tighter. “That is not a good enough explanation my lady. You promised me that your Lord would deliver the results we wished for. And yet now, the whore of Highgarden has given birth to a boy, an heir. There is not a chance in any of the seven hells that the King will set her aside and marry Daenerys now. You are useless to me.”

Something changes in the room then, the Lady seems to stiffen, her shoulders are taut. “I can still be of use to you Your Grace. The Queen might have given birth to an heir, but children die all the time as babes. Your own lady Mother lost many children in infancy.”

Viserys closes his eyes, he knows exactly what the woman is suggesting, and he is not sure that he is ready to take that step. He exhales deeply. “There must be another way, I will not have the blood of an innocent child on my hands.”

The woman moves behind him, her arms wrap around his waist, her breath tickles his ear. “You know that the blood would not be on your hands Your Grace. The King would never think to question you; you are close with him. And should the Queen suspect anything, well where would she get the proof from.”

Viserys opens his eyes, not fully believing he is actually asking this question, but doing so all the same. “And how would you do it then? How could you do it, without it seeming like some sort of actual killing?”

The woman kisses his cheek and whispers. “It is better if you do not know the how Sire. There are some things that royalty should not know, when it comes to these matters.”

Viserys nods, reluctantly, he knows they have not reached any solid plan in regards to the Whore of Highgarden, and so instead he says. “The Riverlands are back under control. Stark has done a good job there, better than I thought he would do. The Sparrows are fast bleeding support. Soon enough I think that the war will be done there.”

“And what will you do when that comes to pass?” Lady Melisandre asks, her breath hot against his cheek.

Viserys shivers slightly. “I think I will need to talk to the King. He aims to make himself the full sovereign over the Faith, something my father should’ve done, or one of our ancestors should’ve done a long time ago. But I fear he will be too lenient on the sparrows.”

“And why do you say that?” the lady asks.

Viserys takes Melisandre’s hand and kisses it. “The King has a tender heart, he has never had to face much more than the questions of his reign. His grandsire is dead, but his grandmother lives. He knows love, and he wishes to ensure that the Targaryen dynasty remains strong. I can understand that, I support that. But I am cautious, for I feel he might well reward those who do not deserve rewarding. The Sparrows are a dangerous blight on the realm, and they must be destroyed completely. That means more bloodshed than I think the King is willing to carry out. Especially as the Sparrows are predominantly in the Reach, and there are those amongst them who are known to be close relations to the Queen and her family.”

“You think he will try and protect them, for his wife’s sake?” Lady Melisandre asks.

“Not intentionally, but I think he will do so. For the love, he bears her. And that is why we must tread carefully now. We must ensure that any sparrows we find who have any sort of connection to the Queen are killed and destroyed completely.” Viserys says.

“Would you not want this to come out into the open? That way one could use it to bring the Queen down?” Melisandre asks.

Viserys shakes his head. “No. I will not use this to bring down the Queen. I do not want my nephew to suffer the humiliation that would come from that. Nor do we know for certain whether the Queen has anything to actually do with those fools within the Sparrows. Regardless, if we even did that, it is likely she would try and use the connection between you and the fool in Volantis.”

“Moqorro.” Melisandre says, her face scrunching up at the name. “I have long felt that such an association would hamper me, I just did not know it would happen now.”

Curious Viserys asks. “What is the man like? I know little enough about his servant. But if he can make a man such as Benerro into a believer, he must truly be powerful.”

“He is. Very powerful, he is seeking something beyond the norm, I believe. I think he wishes to bring back an empire similar to Valyria, to make the sky shake under his might. He has the charm, and the magic within him to be able to do it. He has taken much of what he has through sheer force of will as well as through cunning and guile. Whatever issues he faced in Slaver’s Bay have been reduced to nothingness now. Whether that can sustain itself, I do not know.” Melisandre responds.

A thought strikes Viserys then, and tentatively he asks. “Do you think he could be behind the chaos that is going on here? After all, we know he holds the southern regions of the fertile plains leading into Andalos. The fact nothing has been done about that could be the main reason why the Sparrow originated. No one knows anything about the man, beyond his rhetoric.”

Melisandre’s lips curl inward, making her look even more beautiful than she already does. Her lips curl out and her mouth opens. “I think it is very possible. And yet, if that is the case, then he has come up with a plan that is not as secure as he would’ve liked it to be, and that is not like Moqorro.”

“What do you mean?” Viserys asks. “What is Moqorro like?”

“He is cunning, cruel, and he is dedicated. When he sets his mind to something, he does not stop until it is done. If he wanted to break down the realm for his invasion, we would know about it properly. This hiding and skulking, this is not his way.” Melisandre says.

“So then, we sit and we wait to see who it is behind the Sparrow?” Viserys replies glumly.

“For now.” Melisandre agrees, then she moves forward and kisses him whispering against his lips. “Come my Prince, let me show you wonders.” They lose themselves then into the flames and the visions of a future to come.


	37. High Septon

**5 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

The sun was shining through the slits that passed for windows in some parts of the Red Keep. His ancestors must not have liked the sun, for their window designs were so narrow. He would need to change them later on, when things were more settled, for now though, he would keep them. He has more important things to consider. Looking at his small council he speaks. “I have reached my decision. I believe the time is right for the announcement to be made. The more time we take in pushing this down, the longer chance we give to the rebels to make their own announcement, and that is something I will not abide.”

Robb as ever is supportive. “I agree Your Grace. When I was in the Riverlands, there was talk that the rebels would try and crown their own High Septon. Thankfully, the fools who tried to do that were slain when we fought.” His cousin grimaces and Jonothor feels for his cousin, it could not have been easy. He has heard the tale of the massacre of the God’s Eye from his sources and from his cousin both. And by all accounts it was brutal.

“Tell me Lord Stark, when you were in the Riverlands, what precisely did the traitors say before they tried to move?” Jonothor asks, he has heard this before, but he wants the rest of the council to hear it as well.

Robb loyal as ever, speaks once more. “They said they were tired of indecision, and they were tired of having to wait. They would make the announcement themselves, or they would die trying.”

“And die they did.” Jonothor says simply. He looks at the lords gathered around him, his small council, minus Lady Ellaria, off hunting her demons in Essos. “I will not tolerate such behaviour anymore. The time to put this business to an end has come.”

“The sooner, the better I say.” Lord Velaryon says.

Ebrose, is as always cautious. “Your Grace, with the current situation in the Reach, and with the Starry Sept and Oldtown itself under danger, would it not be better to perhaps wait? After all, we do not want things to get inflamed.”

Jonothor grimaces. “Whilst I understand your concern Ebrose, I think that the time for indecision has long since passed. Princess Daenerys has married the heir to Oldtown, and Ser Baelor here has assured me his father will not have wanted anything to stop this from happening. Regardless, of what chaos was ensured.”

Ebrose bows his head, but Jonothor suspects he will not have heard the end of this for some time yet. He is prepared to accept that, for what is to come will finally end all of it. “The Most Devout as construed by your direction Maester, have reached a decision have they not?”

The man nods. “Yes, they have chosen on the moderate Septon Donnor. A man of good repute, who will appeal to both the more devout Causterians and the moderates. He is a firm opponent of the Sparrows, and has always been a most outspoken supporter of Your Grace.”

“Good.” Jonothor says. “I shall meet with him before the proclamation.” None of the members of his council protest, and so he dismisses them. Leaving himself alone with his thoughts and the Kingsguard outside. He runs a hand through his hair, stopping at the iron pronged crown he wears. The symbol of his authority. He runs his hands over the sharp edges, feeling the black steel shift and shape to his touch. He moves his hand away, and rises. He walks, accompanied by the Kingsguard, to where he knows the man, Septon Donnor resides. He knocks, and enters when given permission. Septon Donnor is a short man, brown of hair, and fair of skin. He bows before Jonothor. “Rise.” Jonothor commands, the man does so. “You are ready for your duty?” he enquires. He does not want a leader, but he does not want a fool either.

“I am Sire.” Septon Donnor replies calmly.

“And you know what your duties will be once you are formally proclaimed before the people?” Jonothor asks.

Septon Donnor’s mouth twitches slightly at this, but he nods. “I do Your Grace.”

“And you are fully ready to be nothing more than a figurehead, dispensing thought and ideology only as requested?” Jonothor asks. Knowing that if he had asked that question of any of the previous High Septons they’d have hit him.

Again, the man’s mouth moves, but his words are simple and straight forward. “I am Your Grace.”

Jonothor stands there in silence for a moment, debating what more to say, before eventually nodding his head himself and saying. “Very well then. May the Seven look upon you fondly. I shall see you later.” With that he turns and walks back to his own rooms, and preparation for the afternoon. Such preparations as they were involved making love to Margaery several times, then once they were both sated, he bathed, dressed into suitable attire as did his wife, and then he check on their son. His son was such a light in the world, dark hair, colourful eyes, and pale skin, he was going to be a strong boy, that much he knew. From there, he and Margaery walked arm in arm toward the entrance to where the announcement would be made to the throngs of people. Nodding to his council members, and various other members of the court, Jonothor takes a breath, then pushes open the door, accompanied by Margaery and then by Septon Donnor. They stand out overlooking the throngs of people, who had come to witness the announcement. Thousands of them all present and staring up at them eagerly enough. Jonothor closes his eyes a moment, he feels Margaery squeeze his arm, then he opens his eyes and speaks. “My people, you have come a long time waiting for this moment. I promise you now, the wait is over. By right of descent from Hugor of the Hill, and the Seven themselves, I do now proclaim myself head of the Faith, and I do hereby name as the new High Septon, my man in all faith, Septon Donnor.”

There is a moment of silence as his words are repeated throughout the crowd, the throng seems to digest it all, and then there is cheering, shouts of “Long Live the King!” and “Death to the rebels!” sound throughout the crowd, emitting a strong sense of pride and hope for all. Eventually, the crowd falls silent and Septon Donnor speaks, the words Jonothor knows he has rehearsed long and hard. “I thank you all, most humbly. I accept His Grace’s appointment, and promise in all things to be a faithful servant to the Seven, the King, their representative on this world.” The man stops, turns and bows before him, kissing his ring. Jonothor helps him up to his feet, and the crowd roars their approval.

 

 


	38. Night Stalker

**6 th Mont of 299 A.C. Somewhere in Essos**

**Lady Ellaria Sand**

It was not hard to find the man she sought. There were clues everywhere, clues she had steadily been gathering and collecting for the past few years, ever since Oberyn had been murdered. And now, with all the clues collected, she was here. Where villainy thrived, and chaos ruled. She was in the den of snakes, and stranglers, and she was determined to come out on top. She had already dealt with his friend and consummate ally, she was going to deal with him as well, and leave him broken down and beaten. The shadows moved, and she stepped out, her dagger in hand. She coughs, the man turns around, plump as always, but his eyes glistened with some unknown emotion.

“Lady Ellaria. How very nice to see you. I trust you had no difficulty finding me?” Varys asks.

Ellaria stares at him, this is the man who had ordered Oberyn’s death, this was the man who had ordered all kinds of things to happen in recent years, and now, here he was before her, acting as if it was just another conversation. “You were not hard to find, all I had to do was follow the stench.” She replies curtly.

The eunuch nods seemingly happy with this explanation. “You will be wanting to know what I have been doing I take? So, that you might reply back to your King about everything, and to reassure him that this was not just an endless chase.” Ellaria says nothing, merely waiting, she thinks she knows Varys, she thinks she knows he will talk, and when he does she is relieved. “I grew up an orphan you see. My sister and I, we were the only people we had for one another. Our father was killed by our uncle, and our Mother sent us into hiding to protect us from his rage. We travelled around, fighting on the streets, acting like beggars, doing what we could to ensure that everything could work. Then I got cut. And our hopes were reduced to little more than nothing. We found Illyrio, or he found us, the descendant of a soldier, and we made him ours, we worked together, the lines would be united, under my sister’s son.” There is a hint of sadness there. “Then Aerys found me, and I worked hard, I did what I could. Aerys was not always the easiest person to convince, and there were times where I was genuinely concerned that I might be found out. But Pycelle was playing his own game, and so I lived for the time being. Then Prince Rhaegar, fool that he was kidnapped the Stark girl.” Ellaria watches Varys, sees how his breathing remains even, how there is no one else nearby. “And so the Targaryen dynasty fell. As I always knew it would. But then Rickard Stark did something I had not counted on. He used his brain and put his grandson on the throne. And my plans were scuppered for the time being. So, I retreated.”

“And now you are here.” Ellaria says, speaking to hear her own voice. “You have done so many things Varys, did you never stop to think if it was worth it?”

The eunuch laughs, a sad sound. “Oh, I always knew it would be worth it. I just never deigned to consider the cost that losing Illyrio might have.”

Surprised Ellaria asks. “What do you mean?” she is not sure whether to believe the eunuch or not, but she knows that this is something unexpected.

“Look around you, Lady Ellaria.” The eunuch says, stretching his arms wide. “There is no Golden Company, there is no group of exiles fighting for survival anymore. We died the moment Illyrio died, and the moment Illyrio died, the boy died as well. I would not risk the last piece of family I have for something that does not exist anymore. Why else would you find me? I wanted you to find me.”

“Why? Do you not wish to fight?” Ellaria asks stunned, she had always thought the eunuch would fight.

Instead the eunuch laughs. “No, gods no. I have had enough of fighting. I merely wish to rest now. To join my sister and my family. We are done, and I will not prevent the inevitable.” Something must show on her face, for he smiles. “You are not certain whether to believe me. Look around you my lady, there is no army here, there are no banners flying. It is done. End it now.”

Ellaria fingers her dagger, the temptation to end it now is great, but there are things she knows she must ask first, before she can have her justice. “Tell me, the chaos happening within Westeros, was it your doing?”

The eunuch laughs. “Oh come now my lady. We both know that if it was my doing, it would not be falling apart as it is now. It would still be going. No, I had nothing to do with that. Though I would not be surprised if Baelish or some other fool did.”

Ellaria looks disbelievingly at the eunuch. “You are telling me that you did not take up the greatest chance for a Blackfyre restoration in years, and you expect me to believe that? Why?”

The eunuch’s shoulders sag. “Because, I have no patience anymore. My family is dead. I am the last of it. There is no army for us anymore, the company died off with Illyrio. And I do not want to continue any sort of fantasy anymore, I am not my Father, nor am I my uncle. I know that the time has come for me to accept this. I want you to end this Ellaria, do it and make peace with it.”

Ellaria stares at him uncertainly, and then she says. “Very well then.” She moves forward, as does the eunuch, she draws her dagger, looks into the eunuch’s eyes, and then buries the dagger inside the man’s chest. She hears him cough, hears him splutter, she pulls the dagger out and moves back as a fountain of blood comes pouring out of him. She watches as the man staggers back then falls to the ground. She sees him smile, and then his face goes blank. Blood continues to pour out of him. Ellaria looks at him, then at the dagger in her hand, dripping blood, she cleans it against her cloth, then throws it away. She says a prayer, and then walks away, toward peace, knowing the last of the Blackfyres is dead at last.


	39. Crow

**6 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Westerlands**

**Lord Jaime Lannister**

The Crow, a mad man who used the Faith as a tool to get people to do what he wanted them to. And did as the High Sparrow bid him to do. Jaime had learned all about him from the various peasants they had ridden past on the way to fighting him. The man had managed to draw quite the following amongst the peasantry that lived near the border with the Reach, something Jaime was not surprised by. It would be a painful thing, having to slaughter so many of them, simply for their beliefs, but it was something that needed to be done. They could not tolerate anyone who broke the King’s peace to live. And so, they rode forth, determined and also a little reluctant, but still they rode. The closer they came, the harder it seemed to get to truly face the foes that were coming their way.

The peasants were lined in a defensive formation, evidently lessons from the previous encounters had been passed on and learned. Jaime could spot several weaknesses though, a gap here, a broken shoulder there. It would make things too easy if he used the archers, and so, he decided there and then to give the infantry and pikemen something to do. “Form up. Pikemen, to the centre.” He bellows, listening as his captains bark the orders down the line. In a smooth and clear formation, the pikemen form up centre, and begin the slow march toward them. “Call to halt.” Jaime barks. The pikemen halt, and they watch as the drums and the prayers of the peasants are read out. Jaime suspects he knows what will happen, the Crow will no doubt push them forward.

As he expects, the peasants soon stumble forward, to the sound of a marching tune, but fear is writ plain on their faces, the pikemen move forward as well, stepping closer, taunting and teasing the peasantry. The peasants seem to grow flustered at that, they break ranks, they move, they curse. The pikes are raised then lowered, and the peasants die screaming on knife edges. Jaime watches all of this with little pleasure, the peasantry will be hard to replace, and with winter coming, they will need all the men they can get. Still, the fools are the ones rebelling here, and so they are, in his opinion getting their just deserts. Soon enough, the pikemen fall back, and as they had planned, the archers come forward. The peasants seem to be stuck now, charging forward, but also terrified of what might come.

Archers count down, his captains count down, Jaime counts down, and then they let loose. Arrows whir into life, causing the sky to be filled with thousands upon thousands of black darts, brown darts, the darts of destruction. Jaime follows their path, as they wind their way up and then down. They land with precise accuracy, and deadly swiftness. The peasants who are on their receiving end, do not know how to respond, how to react to what has come for them. They panic, they stumble, they stutter, and they fall. They crush one another, but more of them keep coming and so the carnage continues. Jaime watches impassively atop his steed, his heart fluttering back and forth, debating whether to be pleased that the plan has worked, or horrified.

The bodies begin to pile up, the ground begins to swell, the temperature grows warmer by the second. Jaime moves a little in his saddle, trying to get the best view, and to prevent himself suffering some form of heat stroke. He watches as the peasants continue to run forward, for some reason not understanding that the more they do that, the greater their chance of being killed. Or perhaps they do understand they just do not care anymore. Either thought is somewhat scary for Jaime. He thinks once more about how exactly he is meant to replace the peasants who are dying today, with men ready to work the fields. He closes his eyes, and listens to the sound of their dying. The sound of their bodies breaking upon the ground, being used as cushions for their fellow men. He opens his eyes and looks toward his son and heir, Arthur is beside him, watching it all with rapt horror.

Eventually, the arrows stop flying and the ground when they look at it, is a mix of bodies, dead and living, and the swarming mass that is Lannister justice. Jaime swallows, counts to three, then gives the command. His men spur themselves on from their stupor, the great Lannister war machine continues. His lance is held firmly in his hand, Arthur is directly at his side, they knock into the peasants that have somehow contrived to find mounts, knocking them down easily enough, counting on their greater numbers to both reduce and destroy the peasants, and prevent them from getting back up again. They keep riding, Jaime knows the Crow is somewhere here, somewhere nearby, he would not hide anywhere else, not if he knew just how far it was to go and to come back. And so, they keep riding and killing. The killing never stops. The faces just begin to blur into one another, until, in a flash, there, he sees the Crow, a big stocky man, with a scythe for a weapon. Jaime bellows commands and rides towards the man, his men following. His lance is dropped, somewhere in the mud, long forgotten, his sword is in his hands, and an enormous clash sounds. They bring steel down on the guards, and are through.

The Crow stands there swinging his weapon as if he was born to it. Born to this. Born to the feeling of the fight. His blood rushing to his face, pounding in his heart, the aches of the road, the decks of the many falling before him. He is a natural, he brings down several trusted lieutenants, and causes some scares when he nearly gets to Arthur, but soon enough, it is just Jaime and him. Jaime remains mounted, not daring to give the man the honour of chivalry, still remembering that this man is a peasant and nothing more. They circle one another, then a flash, and a cut, the man roars, and Jaime grunts, they circle and fight once more. Blood is drawn, the fighting around them continues, but they keep going. Circling one another, pushing at the other’s limits they move, before another swing and a hit. A grunt and a groan.

The fighting continues, their weapons clang against one another in a most ungainly fashion. There does not seem to be much happening here, other than the push and pull, but over the sound of his own rapid heartbeat, Jaime can tell that the crow is slowing, his body was never made for the strain he has put it through. His gait is slow and deliberate; his movements are awkward and hesitant. Jaime spots an opening and takes it, moving full speed ahead, he cuts and breaks, feints and swerves. The Crow cannot handle this, and soon enough, he ends up buried in mud. His support broken and dead, Jaime and his men learn what they can and then send word to the King. A journey into the Reach is needed, an end will be brought.


	40. Horns

**7 th Month of 299 A.C. Castle Black**

**Lord Eddard Stark**

They came in the dead of night. The Watchers on the Walls blew three blasts of their horns, and the things they had been preparing for, for moons came flying back to Ned. They had found things, rumours, whispers of the truth, wildlings who had spoken of Dragonglass, they’d found some in a abandoned barrow north of the wall, and more had been found in the barrowlands. They had fashioned it into arrows and spears and swords, it would handle the wights, that much they knew for sure, whether it would handle the white walkers, well that was something else entirely. Ned was up and ready by the time the third horn blast sounded. They knew what to expect, he hurried out of his room, his sword in hand, and the men were already hard at work preparing for what was to come. As he made his way toward the wall, he could already hear the shouts of men, the preparation for the fighting to come. He nodded to Benjen and together they made their way up the cage.

As the cage makes its shaky progress up and over the edges, they see men falling down, quickly those men are moved and then burned, so they cannot rise again as the devils of life itself. Ned says a prayer, to what Gods he does not know, but before he can think too long on the matter, the cage stops and the gate opens. They move out, Ned drawing Ice into his hands, his brother with his bow and Dragonglass arrows. They watch as the brothers and northmen fire all they have at the parade of death that is coming before them. Ned sees men and women and children all staggering toward them, desperately clinging to semblance of life, not knowing or realising that they lost their life long ago. Ned watches as his brother fires his arrows, three, always three, they cannot waste the Dragonglass after all. Then the fire arrows are unleashed, and this time the sky burns brightly. The world stops echoing the darkness all around them and burns with a false sun. Ned takes a deep shivering breath, and feels it clog up the air and space around him.

Ned sheathes his sword, and decides to take up the flames himself. He is not a good shot, but he is good enough. He takes aim and lets loose, watching as the arrows lick through the sky and bury themselves deep into the chests of the dead who would seek to scale the wall. The wall which has never been scaled before by anything dead. As before, Ned cannot see the White Walkers themselves, they remain hidden somewhere, buried deep within the fog and snow that they have cast. Ned knows they are out there, where exactly he does not exactly know, and the thought unnerves him. He hears commands being bellowed, and as he sees the giants walking and bellowing their way toward the gates, the black brothers and northmen make their way down, and Ned stands atop the wall, rooted in his command. There are screams, the gates groan beneath them, but they hold, thankfully they hold. Black brothers hurry to burn their fellows before they rise again.

The wights keep coming, there seems to be no stopping them, wherever they are felled by arrows, they rise, and keep coming until felled by fire. Or something else. He does not pretender to understand the delicacy of some of the things being presented before him, all he knows is that there are things happening and he needs to ensure he can control some of them. He barks commands, watches as they are followed, and then watches as they are reduced to nothingness. The wights keep coming, overwhelming in numbers. The darkness creeps back, fighting off the light as if it were nothing more than a pesky fly. Ned feels helplessness creep over him then. They see the White Walkers advancing then, and he knows their time has come. He nods to Benjen and the orders are wordlessly passed down the chain of command. Dragonglass is posed at the ready, then as the White Walkers come closer, it is unleashed.

Fury, darkness, chaos, those are the words he would use to describe the next few moments, or hours, however long it takes for the White Walkers to come and for their pawns to disappear. The wall begins to crumble, they shake, then it solidifies, and the pain continues. Then, the gates are being attacked, Ned hurries into the cage, and down it, accompanied by a score of men, they rush to one gate, they find it flung open, and death itself striding in. Ned draws his sword, and swings, the White Walker blocks and then retaliates, they exchange blows, back and forth, constantly, cold, it is very cold now. Ned does not know how else to describe what he is feeling, but then he swings and the white walker disappears in a puff. The wights fall down with it, and sense returns briefly. They keep coming though, as always, a plague like no other.

The snow comes, and it surprises them all, there are exclamations of shock and horror, but the snow is where he was born, he is from it, and he is it. He embraces it and allows it to guide some of his movements. He dances around the pathways, the gardens, and soon enough the rhythm finds him, he moves and circles and pauses and breaks. The wights, the white walkers they fall, leaving behind a trail of cold. It is replenishing for him, and so they keep moving. Remaining within the confines of the wall though, once the last assault on his gate is done, he goes up to see how things are progressing, the sight frankly horrifies him. Swarms, that’s the only appropriate word he can find. Swarms of White Walkers and wights, moving toward him and the wall, they don’t have anywhere near enough the capacity to fight that. The men on the walls must realise this for they stand and they stare, none of them dare fight or fly another arrow.

The great death trap comes towards them, ever closer to the wall, unflinching and unmoving, it just keeps coming, it does not make sense. He struggles to keep an eye on it, his breathing is heavy, his brother is injured. They try fixing things, but nothing seems to work. They stand and the wall quakes as the things come and burn and shake and quake. Ned stands and closes his eyes, his prayers will fall on deaf ears he is sure, none are paying any attention to the woes of what is happening here. A shout, a cheer, forces him to open his eyes. He watches in disbelief as the White Walkers fall, broken not by man, but by something else. It takes him a long moment to adjust his eyes, but when he does, he sees something he’d thought only legend. Beasts with hooves, horns and the eyes of the maker in them, glowing red, and white, and orange.


	41. Trials

**7 th Month of 299 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Robb Stark**

“Order! Order!” Robb calls out, sitting on the Iron Throne. Court is in sessions and today they have a very big thing happening. Jasper, his cousin, his friend has finally emerged from the Vale and has brought with him Petyr Baelish. Robb acting in the King’s stead, calls out. “Bring forth Lord Arryn and the accused.” The two men appear, Jasper standing tall and proud, Baelish standing as well, but not for long. “You both know why you are here, as does the court, but for those who have forgotten I shall read out the charges.” He takes a piece of paper from one of the scribes and reads out. “Lord Petyr Baelish is accused of conspiring to commit murder and treason of the highest degree. He confessed to you Lord Arryn, and upon learning of this you have brought him here.” A pause, nothing, and then Robb says. “You may present your case, my lord.”

His cousin nods his head in thanks. “My lord hand, members of the court, I come to you today to present the truth behind my lord Grandfather and my Lord father’s murders.” A pause, Jasper always has had a thing for theatrics. He continues after a suitable amount of time. “After my Mother was rightfully executed for treason and for murder, I retired to the Vale. I needed time to think and to process. When I was in the Vale, Lord Baelish arrived, claiming he had come to help me ferment something against the crown.”  Here there is a lot of murmuring, and Jasper nods. “I was shocked by this, I had no intention whatsoever of fermenting unrest against the crown. The King is my dearest friend and my cousin as well. I wanted to be a loyal and firm subject, I merely needed time to get used to the idea that my Mother was a traitor.” That earns him some sympathetic noises from the ladies of the court, Robb hides a smile, his cousin is playing this very well. “As such, I told Lord Baelish this, but the man refused to listen to reason.”

There are murmurs at this, and Robb sees Baelish move forward as if to say something, thankfully, he does not, and Jasper continues. “Baelish continued to pester me. Insisting that I needed to do something to continue with the deal he had reached with my Mother. When I asked him what this deal was, he said that it involved providing him with favours, chances to continue his operations, in return for doing whatever was asked of him.” This draws even more murmurs of consternation and disapproval. “I admit I was intrigued by this, I knew my Mother, I knew she was not the most stable of people, and so I wanted to see what deals they had struck. I demanded and was given access to the man’s ledgers, when I looked at them I was horrified. I saw notes about murders of several high-ranking officials within the Vale, as well as the Riverlands, and then notes discussing how exactly my grandsire and Father were to be killed. Baelish told me he had not killed my father, but that he had had a hand in killing my grandsire, for the greater good.” Robb can see Baelish straining to talk, he knows what comes from that man can only be short. He nods for Jasper to conclude his argument. “I looked and I read, and I found that the man was also providing funds for trouble in the Riverlands and the Reach. Funds he had acquired from land my Mother foolishly had given him from her dowry. He was abusing his power and funding treason. And so, I brought him here for justice.”

The court is alive with whisperings, Robb raises his hands and they fall silent, he looks at Jasper, nodding. “My thanks for your testimony my lord.” He takes a breath, then looks at Baelish and demands. “You may speak now Lord Baelish.”

Baelish says nothing for a long moment and then when he does speak, his voice is filled with contempt. “Lord Arryn talks in lies. He was more than willing to take on the task with which I had ensured to make happen. He was happy to get his revenge, to ensure that justice was given for the wrongful killing of his Mother.”

Robb can tell Baelish is lying, the man looks at him straight in the eye, but his eyes are colourless. “And you have proof of this? You do not deny that this was part of your plan?”

Baelish snorts. “I need not deny it, it is true. I have been planning these things for many a year now. I was looking forward to seeing them come true.”

This draws a large murmur from the court. “And why is that? What happened to you that was so bad that it necessitated such treason?”

Baelish is silent for a long moment and then says. “You are all so high and mighty, you all think that you are better than me because of your birth. I am smarter than almost all of you combined. I have worked for my position, none of you have. You have all been given everything you ever wanted. You do not know what it means to struggle, to fight, to breathe fear. You are all fools, and that will be your downfall in the end.”

“You are a naïve fool Baelish.” Robb replies curtly. “If you were as smart as you claim to be you would’ve worked to make the system work for you. Hells, looking at you now, I know you did. If the system truly looked down on you as badly as you think it does, you would never have gotten as far as you have. You have admitted to the treason and as such your sentence is death.”

“And what of Lord Arryn, will you have your cousin executed as well Stark?” Baelish taunts.

Robb snorts. “No. Lord Arryn has done nothing wrong, he listened to you, tried to convince you otherwise and when that failed he brought you here for judgement. Your time on this world is done. May you rot in the Seven Hells.” Baelish is held down by two guards, Robb walks down the steps of the throne, remembering what his Father and Grandfather had told him, the man who passes the sentence must swing the sword. He takes a sword from his squire, and then leans down and says. “In the name of King Jonothor Targaryen, I sentence you to death.” He draws the sword up and brings it down in one clean arc, thankfully, Baelish’s head rolls off on that first go. He gives commands for the head to be mounted on Traitor’s Gate and for the body to be burned, and then he turns, hands the sword back to his squire and resumes court.


	42. Finish Sparrow

****

**8 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere in the Reach**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

Word had reached them in King’s Landing about where the Sparrows were congregating in the Reach, and with the destruction of the uprising in the Westerlands, and the Riverlands, Lord Jaime was free to come and assist them. Jonothor had ridden through the Eastern Reach, accompanied by the forces of the Stormlands and the Crownlands and had been horrified to see the destruction that the Sparrows had caused. Fields were burned and reduced to ash, there were bodies of men, women and children hung up like common chattel. The worst of humanity was on display as they had ridden forwards. And now, they were approaching the end of it all. The Sparrows were on their knees, fighting two armies, the Tyrells and the Lannisters were giving it good, but Jonothor knew his presence and his men would be more than enough to end it.

The scene which greets Jonothor and his men is one of absolute chaos. The sparrows are fighting alongside properly armoured knights, and there are foes falling all around them. None seem to know what to make of anything, and so the fighting continues to rage. Jonothor looks at his men, the Kingsguard and says. “We cut through them, we find the High Sparrow and we end this.” The knights nod, the Sparrow is said to be brown of hair, long of face and grey of eye, he sounds familiar, but for now Jonothor cannot focus on that. A horn sounds, fighting stops briefly, then resumes when they realise who it is that has come to fight them. Sparrows come charging towards him, towards them, Jonothor uses his sword to cleave a bloody path, not caring who he takes down, so long as they fall down and stay down. They move swiftly, the fighting becomes a blur, but they still ride.

Jonothor sees the eyes of a thousand beasts playing through the chaos happening around him. Men are fighting their friends, their brothers and probably their fathers as well, all in the name of seven figures who have been used and abused by one brown haired shit. He finds this incredible, he does not understand it, nor does he think he ever will. His sword makes him cut a way through the swathes of bodies, his subjects, these are all his subjects and he is having to kill them. What sort of fucked up world is this, where a King who merely wants to do some good in the world must kill his own people? The world has lost some of its colour, and Jonothor is not sure whether it will ever regain it. His sword becomes the thing that anchors him to the present, to prevent him from diving into the pool of depression and anger that await him when this is all done.

A blow comes towards him in the form of a heavy mace, he ducks, blocks, spins and turns, and eventually through some miracle or the other manages to bring the mace down and away from him. The fight continues, the bloodshed continues, there is no stopping it, there is no way whatsoever of stopping this thing that is happening right before him. He feels a deep sadness engulf him then, but knows that for now, he has to put that aside and handle everything else that comes his way. The sword continues to do what it has done throughout this battle already, it guides him. Steering a path in the blood of his subjects, and through them when they do not move. The Sparrow is somewhere here, he knows that, can see it in the colourful capes and cloaks that the men fighting wear, they are his guards, they are the ones who are supposedly the finest knights in Westeros. Jonothor finds that hilarious. He has the finest knights in Westeros at his side. Ser Gerold Hightower, Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Oswell Whent, Ser Rolland Storm, all of them could carve a bloody path through any of the fools here.

The world spins violently around him, turning the good to bad, and the bad to good. He keeps going, knowing that if he even so much as tries to stop, he will give up there and then. And a King can never give up. His men are looking to him to lead by example. His sword continues, and there are more and more bodies piling up, growing stronger as the day wears on. He knows not where anyone else is, all he focuses on is finding the High Sparrow and ending this. His sword does most of the work. Men are cut through or knocked to the side, his Kingsguard finishing up most of the work, and not allowing anyone else to so much as come near him. The fighting continues and on and on and on. Never seeming to end. It does not seem as though anything will happen now, but he knows if he finds the High Sparrow things will end.

He is not sure why he feels this way, somewhere deep down, he knows. Knows that if he keeps pushing, keeps striving for it, he will eventually find the bastard who has caused all of this and perhaps then they can have it out. They can end the struggling and the constant back and forth that occurs. He sees a glimmer of light somewhere further afield, and he pushes his way toward it. Jonothor feels his heart quicken, he recognises that from somewhere, where he does not know, but he knows it and it knows him. The wielder of the light stands there, dressed in armour, looking like someone he knows, who he does not know, but the face is familiar. He stands atop a rock and then jumps down their dance begins.

The High Sparrow is a good fighter, a bit slow sometimes but good. Jonothor takes a fair few blows on the chin and the chest as they dance. But the Sparrow has weaknesses, weaknesses Jonothor finds and exposes. They prod one another, they push one another into extremes, places where perhaps they might never return from. They dance around the sun and the moon and the bodies that grow ever higher. Their dance does not end, it cannot end, and so they keep going. Forward, backward, forward, backward, a constant dance, a constant thrum of activity. The pace of it never slows, until the High Sparrow is knocked down, his weapon removed from his hands and his body broken and reduced to nothingness. Jonothor finishes, and the fighting gradually stops. Jonothor passes judgement, the reasons are read, and heard, then the man is executed, the judgements are made on his followers. The fields of the Reach are caked in blood forevermore, but for now the fighting is done. There are other problems approaching.


	43. Fire Breather

****

**8 th Month of 299 A.C. Somewhere on the Water**

**Prince Viserys Targaryen**

Moqorro had finally shown his hand, an invasion fleet had set sail from Volantis, and the King had tasked Viserys with handling it. Taking the Royal Fleet and the Velaryon Fleet and men from the Crownlands and Southern Riverlands they’d set off, preparing to give battle. Storms had seen them lose some ships and men, but then when they’d come across the Volanteene and the Fire breather’s fleet, they’d found they were equal of number, or perhaps thereabouts, a vast improvement from what they’d been expecting. Melisandre was with him, there as an advisor as well as someone to provide support especially as the magic tricks had started the moment the fighting had begun.  Benerro was somewhere there, no doubt doing his tricks as well, the storms and lights, the flashing all of it was his work or Melisandre’s. They were working against one another and it was a terrifying sight.

The waves were being thrown against the ships which they were on, and the words being thrown at one another were in High Valyrian, a dialect few spoke. Viserys and his men were firing off their own weapons, breaching them as fast and as constantly as they could, fully aware of the importance of ensuring that there was no respite for the enemy. Viserys barks his orders, and takes part in the throwing and the hurling of missiles, of rocks and arrows and all other sorts of things, determined to break the advance of the Moqorro fleet, to prevent it from landing on anything remotely Westerosi. They push and pull, the waves lap at their ships, and some ships go under, not designed to withstand such a vicious assault. Still somehow they manage. The skies begin to darken, then they brighten once more, the process continues, backwards and forwards, never ending.

Out there, there is a man who is determined to break the course of what has been happening for centuries. Essos and Westeros have usually left one another alone, the only exceptions being when the War of the Ninepenny Kings happened, and when they took Lys and the Stepstones. And now this great fire breathing God is trying to break that, it will not stand. Moqorro is the key, he is there, standing resplendent somewhere far to the north of the ships and the fleet, and the chaos. Viserys knows Melisandre is fighting Benerro and looking for Moqorro at the same time, and that it is draining her energy, that is something that cannot be allowed to stand. He barks another set of orders, and soon enough his own men are looking for the man who would be King. They scan the horizon, they spot him some miles away, Viserys demands that a fleet of heavily armoured and manned ships find him and kill him.

Thunder crackles in the sky as the red priest and priestess do battle. Fire burns brightly. The sun has disappeared, and the sky is crying its tears. Viserys cannot focus on that, he is too concerned with ensuring he does not drown or die with a sword through his guts. His armour is somewhere else, within the ship, boiled leather doing the trick of protecting him now. He stands and fights, one ship and then another, they are moving quickly. Always quickly, there is no room for slowness here. They push and they pull, but eventually they make it work as they always do. Slamming against chaos, and pain. Viserys draws his sword and fights through it once more, to move onto the next victim and the next, and then next. This dance is something he is well used to.

Ducking and weaving over the course of the next few moments will become par for course. There is a long and twisted road ahead, nothing that can or cannot be done, as it has been done before. Still, there are bruises on his body, there are injuries on his side and he does not know quite when to stop or move forward, or break back. That is something he has always struggled with, but he moves forward and keeps going. The pain is fresh, it reminds him to keep breathing, and that is something he holds dear. The fighting continues. His sword remains strong and true, they keep going. Breaking apart, slowly one at a time they move, and they dance, they sing and they cry. The world turns, the sky crackles, then it stops Benerro is dead. Then the thunder starts again and Moqorro comes.

They continue their dance. Ships are sinking, the waves are roaring with new found energy, they are all pressing forward, determined in one way or another to make this thing they are doing work, whatever it is. Swords, axes, it does not matter what sort of weapon one has, it keeps going and moving and dancing. Twisting through the axes and the cradles of it all. Life moves slowly but surely. Blazing with light and fright. The waves are engulfing ships now, eating them and swallowing them whole. A response to the fighting going on around them no doubt. Forward, ever forward, never backward. That was what he was taught once as a child, and it is something he has tried to live by ever since. They keep going, dancing through the moonlight, the sunlight. The world seems to be changing around them as the fight continues.

Pressure fills his head, he wonders how he can keep going, but then he thinks of Melisandre and he thinks of Daenerys and he knows he has the strength to keep going, he has to have that strength. They push and they pull, but the world does not bring him down. He will not fall to the patterns that brought his father down. He twists and turns, avoiding light and death both. He makes his own way through the fighting and the carnage. There is little to be said beyond the need for an end, for a breath. The breathing takes its time coming, when it does, a crash, a pull, water, salt and then Moqorro, the would be King is dead, downed by the woman he threw away a long, long time ago. The rest takes some time to handle, but when it is done, by god, it is a relief.

He returns to Westeros a hero, the people sink his praises in the streets, he is feted by the King and Melisandre is welcomed openly as a hero as well. They drink and they celebrate the ending of a threat before it could become one. Then word comes from the north, and the King must hasten away. Viserys makes his peace with the Queen and her newborn son and with the fact that his sister is now married as well. And settles down to begin helping reshape the Kingdoms in the image his King wants.

 


	44. Cold Nights

**11 th Month of 299 A.C. Beyond the Wall**

**King Jonothor I Targaryen**

Winter was truly setting in. It was so cold here beyond the wall, that when a man exhaled, white plumes would become visible in the sky. There was snow falling almost constantly. It was surreal being this far north. Castle Black was just a few metres behind them, but the things they were here to meet could not come beyond the Wall, and so here they were. Jonothor has heard the tales of the White Walkers and their defeat, he has seen the aftermath, he still cannot quite believe it, but he sits and he looks at the things before him and says. “You, what are you?”

The voice that replies is strong, dark, ancient, suitable for the thing that stands before him. “We are the Horned Ones. Ancient in our being and our knowledge. We have come very far, and we are looking to make peace.”

“Peace?” Jonothor asks. “I was not aware we were at war.”

“We are not.” another voice replies, this one soft and melodic. “But once upon a time, our kinds fought.”

“Are you related to the children and the white walkers?” Jonothor asks.

A different voice, this one somewhere in between the previous two replies. “No. We came before them. Before their little wretched party deigned to join us. We were the first, and we were the last. But we are here now and they are not.”

Jonothor is not sure what to make of that but then he asks. “Why did the White Walkers come? Where did they come from?”

The first voice speaks, its wielder the tallest and strongest of the horned ones, and though Jonothor hears their voice, there is no sound. “They were made by the Children first during their war against us. They fought for supremacy, we defeated them and we lived plainly for a time. Then when the age of man came, we retired to our fortresses in the deep north. The children made more White Walkers from the men they were fighting, determined to defeat your ancestors. And yet, the White Walkers became more powerful than the children could’ve thought possible, and they rebelled. Man, and the children allied together and fought off the White Walkers. They defeated them and banished them. The children did not let man kill the White Walkers, for they were their children.”

“But you killed them this time. Why did you not do so before?” Jonothor demands, thinking of the haunted eyes of his uncles and his cousin Rickon.

“It was not our place. We were slumbering, and perhaps, yes we should’ve acted sooner, but we did not.” the first voice replies.

“Why did you decide to act now? Why did the White Walkers come now?” Jonothor asks.

“Because we had awoken. The White Walkers could not handle living in the same place as us, so they fled. But we learned what had happened the last time they had done so, and we followed. We were tasked with defeating them, this time.” The first voice says.

“By who?” Jonothor queries.

“By you.” The first voice replies, looking at him intently.

“I do not understand.” Jonothor says confused. “How could I have given you this task?”

The second voice speaks then. “Long ago, we were told that there would come a child who would have the lineage of fire and ice in him, and our duty was to serve this child as best we could. When you were born, our instructions came, and we prepared. We have done as we were asked, and now we need only request one thing.”

Jonothor is still not sure he understands just what the Horned Ones are referring to, but he nods all the same. “And what request would you make?”

The third voice answers. “We would ask that you allow us the tract of land known to you as the Lands of Always Winter. For centuries that was our home, our true place. But then the walkers came, and we lost our home, and now we wish to reclaim it.”

The thought of being without a home scares Jonothor, and looking at the Horned ones and the potential damage they could do should they not get their way, makes him nod his head and say. “Very well, from this day forth that land is yours.” He pauses, then asks. “What of the White Walkers are they gone for good?”

“Yes,” the first voice replies. “They shall not return to this land anymore. They are gone, rooted stem and branch. Their creators as well.”

Jonothor is surprised by this. “The Children are gone as well?” He wonders how the northmen will view this, he has never quite been sure how they view the children, despite their worshipping of the same gods.

“Yes, they are. And as for how the northmen will react, you need not worry, they will not care. Northmen and the children have never gotten along.” The first voice says.

Jonothor is surprised by this, but merely nods. “Very well. And you promise never to disturb the wildlings or intrude on their land?”

“So long as they promise the same, then we shall abide by this request.” The first voice says.

Jonothor nods. “That should not be too hard, there are so few of them left that they will do whatever it takes to survive, even if that means abiding by a law that they might otherwise chafe under.”

“Naturally.” The first voice says.

The second voice then speaks. “If we might give some advice?”

Cautiously, Jonothor nods. And the second voice continues. “We would welcome the red priestess into the circles of the court. She has done much good, and from what we have seen she has become sceptical of the faith with which she hoped to convert. The Faith of the Seven has been broken, and reshaped in your image, it is time for old wounds to heal.”

For a moment Jonothor finds himself wanting to question what they say. He finds himself wanting to ask them on what grounds they make such statements, then he takes a moment to think over it for himself and he realises that they are not wrong. The Faith has been broken and reshaped in his image, the court has been stripped of undue influence. The people are his as is the Kingdom. He supposes he can do whatever he wishes now. And so, he finds himself nodding. “Very well, I can see the merits in that.” The Horned Ones nod their approval at that, farewells are said and then Jonothor watches as they disappear into the fading light, an odd feeling settling over him.


	45. Goodbye

**2 nd Month of 300 A.C. King’s Landing**

**Lady Lyarra Stark**

The throne room was abuzz with activity. Lyarra liked it like that, just the right amount of activity and noise within the castle, not too much, not overbearing, but friendly. She was happy as well. Her granddaughter Sansa was a married woman now, married to Ser Arthur Lannister, heir to the Rock. The wedding had been held at the Great Sept of Baelor, and her granddaughter had glowed in the light and the candles of the sept, she looked beautiful now as well, being fed little pieces of food by her husband. Lyarra, looks to her eldest surviving son and says. “The wedding was quite nice. You and Catelyn did well, as did Lord Jaime and Lady Ashara.”

Her son, her Ned, smiles, a rare sight, he is so like his father in that regard. “Aye, the ladies did most of the work. It was kind of the King to suggest we use the Great Sept for the marriage.”

Lyarra says nothing at that, she had been the one to suggest it to Jonothor, and he had taken it up with great plomp. “Sansa looks absolutely stunning today, I must say. She positively glows. The marriage will be a happy one.”

Ned nods. “I admit, I was hesitant at first to go through with it, but after seeing how happy she seems with Arthur, I think it was the right decision.”

Lyarra smiles. “She reminds me a lot of you know.”

Ned seems stunned. “Sansa? She looks and acts a lot like Cat.”

Lyarra chuckles a little. “She looks like Catelyn certainly, but her heart and her attitude, that is all you sweet Ned.”

Her son takes a moment to digest that, then a small smile curls around his lips. He does not mention what she has said again, instead he says. “It is strange being here again, after all this time. Much has changed, and yet little has changed.”

Lyarra nods, she knows what her son means, even if he does not quite yet understand it himself. “Such is the way of things my dear Ned. This is how the world works.”

Suddenly, her son asks. “Do you miss him?” who the him is, she need not ask.

“Sometimes yes. Other times not so much. I knew your father from the time I was a little girl, that is something one does not forget. But he would have been happy with the way things have turned out.” Lyarra responds.

Ned nods, and then another question springs forward. “Will you come back to Winterfell, Mother? I know that you stayed for some time, because of what had happened. But the Faith has been neutered, the red menace has been contained. Everything is well in Westeros, the King and his councillors are doing what they can to now heal the realm. We would be much blessed by your presence.”

Lyarra thinks about the question for a moment, the temptation is there. To return to Winterfell once more, to walk its halls, to run her fingers across its walls once more, as she did when she was a child and as a woman. The temptation is great, but then she knows that her time has come and so she says. “Let me think on it Ned. Now I would advise you to speak with your lady wife. She looks like she needs some help.” At that she sees her son flush, look up at his wife and then move to her and dance. Lyarra watches all of this with an easy eye. Her son has done well, both of her sons have done well. That Brandon and Lyanna are not here, well that is an ache that will never cease, she is a firm believer that no parent should outlive their child. She has outlived two, and that ache was a constant. But now, it has lessened somewhat. She chances a glance at the King, he is in rapt conversation with his wife, their son Aemon is a growing child a cheeky one, and the Queen is slowly coming with child, though she has not announced it yet, she knows from the way her grandson touches her hand and her belly, that she is. Lyarra smiles, all is well and good. Her duty has been done.

Summoning up some last-minute reserve of strength she summons a servant and tells the boy to tell her grandson the King that she is slipping out to get some air. A lie, but a well-meaning one nonetheless. Before the boy has even gone to the King, Lyarra has risen, and walked out of the hall, accompanied by her guards, whose names she does not remember. She says nothing, they say nothing, companions in an amiable silence. Eventually, they come to her rooms, she nods to them, and then slips into the room. Upon entering she moves to her wardrobe, and takes out her sleeping attire. She places it on the bed, and then removes her clothes, one by one she takes the garments off and folds them and places them in her wardrobe-it is important to be neat after all- she can hear Rickard laughing at this, he always did tease her. “And who was it who made it so that you were seen as the most intimidating Lord in Westeros?” she asks aloud, there is no answer, but she knew there would not be.

She gets into her nightgown and pulls back the covers, she slips in and then with her head resting against the pillow, her eyes suddenly heavy, she sees him. Her husband, she knows he is not really there, but she thinks he is for now. He stands there smiling at her, tall, beardless as the day she met him, his eyes glimmering with laughter. “Do you miss me?” Rickard asks.

“More every day.” Lyarra replies. Her cheeks suddenly wet with tears.

“Close your eyes my love. Close your eyes and rest.” Rickard says.

Lyarra closes her eyes, and as she does so, she hears her husband whisper to her. “I love you.”

“I love you too. I’ll see you soon.” She whispers in reply. She hums a lullaby that her mother used to hum to her as a child, one that she hummed to all her children, and to her grandchildren, and then when she gets to the last verse, she smiles and stops.


End file.
